


Mercator Here Can't Help

by JennaCupcakes



Series: this western life i chose [1]
Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Western, Animal Death, Canon-Typical Loss of Extremities, Emotional Slow Burn, Friends With Benefits, Internalized Homophobia, James Fitzjames in a Dress, M/M, Porn With Plot, and they were fuckbuddies! (oh my god they were fuckbuddies), road trip on horses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-25
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:49:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 43,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24917137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JennaCupcakes/pseuds/JennaCupcakes
Summary: “You’ve been gone a while,” James said.Seven months. He’d set out as soon as the weather cleared up, loathe to be cooped up with the reminders of his failure any longer.“You know how it is,” Francis said, following the line connecting their bodies, from Fitzjames’s hand, with its smooth skin and long fingers, up his arm and shoulder, to the part where his clavicle was visible under the robe that had slipped, over his throat with the Adam’s apple working as Fitzjames swallowed, and lastly, to his face. When he met Fitzjames’s eyes, everything that needed to be said had been said.The year is 1898. Francis Crozier is a bounty hunter who loves the road more than anyone else he’s ever met. James Fitzjames is a cowboy looking for his place in the world.
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames
Series: this western life i chose [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2082336
Comments: 329
Kudos: 130





	1. No Glory in the West

**Author's Note:**

> The German Western author Karl May famously never even visited America before writing a fuckton of Westerns so I, too, can pretend I know something about America. ~~There's a plot that goes with this in my head, but whether or not it will get written is a mystery even to myself.~~ Well I’ve done it! Two months later and I managed to write the whole thing. 
> 
> Regarding both the loss of extremities and animal death tags, I will provide warnings at the beginnings of the relevant chapters if you’d like to avoid that. If you have any further question, you can always shoot me a message on [tumblr](https://veganthranduil.tumblr.com/ask). 
> 
> Thank you to [tumblr user kenobiz](https://kenobiz.tumblr.com/) for very excitedly throwing cowboy tropes at me when I floated the idea of this AU. I hope you are pleased with the selection I’ve included (watch for the _Stockbrot_ ). Also thank you to everybody else who yelled at me to get this done, and to the people who lovingly supported me and let me know they were excited to read this. As long as you’re out there, I’ll keep producing Terror AUs. 
> 
> Title is taken from Dessa's song [Sound the Bells](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VIGioQ7tfXg).

He turned on the path that took him the last mile down to Day Break Ranch just as the sun was casting its first tentative rays over the horizon, setting the hills in the distance in stark contrast to its light. The clouds loomed dark and ominous against the quickly brightening sky, like ink-blotches of the night that endeavoured to linger. It was too early for even the chickens to be up—there wasn’t a sound from the coop—and Francis caught sight of the guard dog snoring on the stoop of the main house as he rode past. Not so much as a twitch from him. Perhaps Francis wasn’t entirely unwelcome here.

The road was well-worn, muddy from the rain that had come down earlier. His appaloosa’s hooves made squelching sounds as Francis steered him past the estate—the main house and the two wings that were added at the turn of the century, as well as the outhouse—and turned left by the blueberry bushes. Too early to come calling on the old man. But with any luck, Franklin wasn’t the only familiar face around.

The wind picked up again. Francis drew his duster closer around himself and caught the smell of the farm—the pig pen, the horses cooped up in Franklin’s stable for the night—and, underneath it all, a breeze from the prairie, the memory of flowers and open country and the promise of owing allegiance to no one. It was the kind of wind that pushed the clouds ahead of it like a drover; the kind of wind that—though Francis had only just arrived—put him in the mind of leaving once more. _Aufbruchsstimmung_ , the Germans Francis worked with had called it. The mood of packed bags, a saddled horse, and burned bridges.

The house at the end of the dirt path was smaller than Francis remembered it—barely two rooms, he knew; a bedroom and kitchen crammed so tightly together they nearly became one. It was shaded by a large oak rustling quietly in the breeze, its leaves beginning to turn the colour of fall.

Francis dismounted his horse, only realising how stiff his joints were in the full swing of his leg; landing on the ground with his boots squelching in the mud. Nothing like a reminder that, despite his best efforts, he had grown old in the business.

There was light inside the house in spite of the early hour, and the sound of Francis’s steps and the appaloosa’s quiet protestations as he hitched him and took his saddle off his back were enough to draw the attention of the sole inhabitant as Francis finished rubbing down his horse.

“Who’s there?”

Fitzjames stepped out onto the porch of his house in an embroidered silk robe, holding a Springfield rifle in his hands—not aiming it, but keeping it up and close. His hair, much to Francis’s disappointment, was not done up in curling papers but looked the same as always, if a little in need of a brush. Francis stepped into the circle of light.

“Hello, James. It’s been a while.”

The intake of breath was gratifying and still left Francis with a sour taste in his mouth. He reached for his bags to have something to do with his hands while Fitzjames pieced his face back together into something that wouldn’t embarrass either of them.

“Francis,” Fitzjames said, “Do you want to come in?”

Fitzjames had more things lying around than last time Francis had come through. The part of him that revelled in picking at sores wondered if Fitzjames had entertained visitors, even regular ones, while Francis was gone. The rational part of his mind told him it was none of his business. Fitzjames took Francis’s coat and his bags; stored them while Francis drew up a chair and sank down into it, to take of his boots and massage his calves. The muscles were stiff from the hours he’d spent in the saddle since Copperpoint. Without prompting, Fitzjames brought him a basin of water and a washcloth, then stood back with his arms crossed while Francis peeled of his waistcoat and shirt and began washing the journey’s grime and sweat from his body. The water was cool on his skin. Fitzjames’s gaze was not.

“Have you been up to the main house yet?”

Never ‘ _how have you been’_ or _‘where were you’_. Those weren’t the kinds of questions Fitzjames asked anymore. Francis shook his head. “Figured it best not to wake the old man at such an ungodly hour.”

Fitzjames pursed his lips. Francis wondered what he’d read into his answer. When Francis reached for his shirt, Fitzjames stilled his hand with a touch to Francis’s wrist. Francis met his eyes.

“You’ve been gone a while,” James said.

Seven months. He’d set out as soon as the weather cleared up, loathe to be cooped up with the reminders of his failure any longer. There were only so many places he could go on the farm that allowed him to avoid Sophia.

“You know how it is,” Francis said, following the line connecting their bodies, from Fitzjames’s hand, with its smooth skin and long fingers, up his arm and shoulder, to the part where his clavicle was visible under the robe that had slipped, over his throat with the Adam’s apple working as Fitzjames swallowed, and lastly, to his face. When he met Fitzjames’s eyes, everything that needed to be said had been said.

Francis extended the hand that hadn’t been captured by Fitzjames, reaching out until he could feel the silk of the robe beneath his fingers. It was smooth, a softer touch than anything Francis could still imagine after the summer he’d spent. He held it between his fingers for a long moment, marvelling, before his patience was eclipsed by the memory of Fitzjames’s skin. He pushed the robe aside, his rough fingers catching on the softness of Fitzjames as an almost imperceptible shiver ran through the man. Francis pressed a finger into the hollow above his clavicle. Fitzjames tilted his head to the side, as though giving permission, and at last, Francis leaned in and tasted the skin that was so kindly offered to him. The breath caught in Fitzjames’s throat at the first touch of Francis’s lips. His whole body moved with it, lolling forward and into Francis, who caught him greedily.

Seven months. They seemed longer, now that he had survived them to come back here. In the moment, with Fitzjames willing, no shame in the way he bared himself to Francis, the time he stayed away became a silly thing. Why deny himself?

Why deny himself, indeed. Fitzjames—bold, always too bold—reached out to fit his hand around the back of Francis’s head and drew him up, pulling Francis into a kiss. He got desperate for it. Francis didn’t care for how messy it was—spit-slick and open-mouthed—but Fitzjames whined ever-so-prettily when Francis let him. He near climbed into Francis’s lap with the single-minded goal of getting more of Francis, getting closer to Francis. It was heady stuff.

“Did you get rid of your bed since the last time I was here?” Francis asked when he’d had enough of Fitzjames’s kisses. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then again in an effort to put himself to rights. Fitzjames frowned. “Of course not.”

Francis raised an eyebrow.

Fitzjames sprang off him with a frustrated huff that was more show than genuine frustration. He was incapable of being cross with Francis for long, Francis knew from experience. He was surprised Fitzjames had waited for Francis to bathe himself—though, thinking back on it, that had possibly been entirely self-interested. Most of the time, Fitzjames was on his knees within minutes of having Francis back through the door, and Francis found little cause to complain. When it became too much, he’d saddle up Terror and be off again.

James dropped his robe on a stool by the bed. Francis took more time to unlace his trousers, his joints and muscles making the process of divesting himself more of a labour than he would have liked. He could feel Fitzjames’s gaze on him; didn’t know what the man saw that allowed Francis to keep him around. Maybe nobody else fucked him that well. Francis imagined he had little else to provide.

James was seated on the edge of the bed when Francis turned, a hand outstretched. Francis wanted to ignore it—the indignance of it, the intimacy it implied—but took it because he knew it would please Fitzjames, and it paid to keep him happy, as long as Francis found the patience for it. Fitzjames drew him onto the bed.

Francis had little vocabulary to describe pleasing qualities of Fitzjames, but he was exceedingly pretty. The angular lines of his face were haughty and masculine—a face that Francis found alluring in the most shameful way—but his body was long and lean, muscular in a way that was wholly different from the blunt instrument of Francis’s body. Fitzjames had muscles like a Greek statue. Francis had muscles like a battering ram. When Francis ran a hand over Fitzjames’s torso, from the place where his hipbones were just visible under the skin, over his ribs and up to his chest, Fitzjames tipped his head back and arched into the touch. The movement made his cock bob, hard and curving hopefully to where Francis’s hand had rested just a moment ago. Desire seized Francis suddenly at the sight—the desire to recapture the memory of Fitzjames’s taste, to see if he still shook the way Francis remembered when attended to.

Even better, Fitzjames stifled a shout that might have woken the fucking guard dog after all, had Fitzjames not thrown a hand over his mouth at the last moment. His cock was hot in Francis’s mouth, the taste of him salt and musk. Francis gorged himself on it.

“Jesus, man—” Fitzjames’s voice dropped in several octaves when Francis had his cock in his mouth. “Francis, please, I—want this to last, _please_ —”

He sounded so desperate. He might have been Francis’s gift from God, or a temptation sent to him by Satan himself. Francis didn’t care. He couldn’t care, not when Fitzjames writhed under him like a veritable serpent as Francis increased the suction on his cock, determined to bring the man to the brink before giving him reprieve.

The tin of grease was in the second drawer of the nightstand. Francis knew how to reach for it blindly and he did so now while Fitzjames was still cursing his name and begging him between great heaving gulps of air. He lathered up a finger and slid it into Fitzjames as easy as anything, meeting no resistance but only a drawn-out moan from the mouth of Fitzjames that had Francis convinced Fitzjames would spend then and there. He didn’t.

“Christ,” Fitzjames said, “You’ll kill me one of these days. Please, Francis, _move_.”

Francis obliged him.

He didn’t return his mouth to Fitzjames’s cock, afraid it might actually push the man over the edge. Fitzjames was hot and tight around Francis’s finger. Even with the long separation of Francis’s absence, it didn’t take him long to find that spot inside Fitzjames again, the place that made him sob and plead with Francis.

“Put your cock inside me, I need it, please.”

Francis would never leave a man wanting if he could help it.

It almost hurt, sliding into the tight heat of Fitzjames’s arse. Francis closed his eyes and buried his face against Fitzjames’s neck. He wasn’t sure what his face might show in these moments. He felt undone, open, vulnerable. And then he was all the way inside Fitzjames.

Fitzjames was already moving under him, and the friction on his painfully hard cock drew a grunt from Francis. Too much, far too much. Fitzjames would be the undoing of him— _was_ the undoing of him, in the shameless way that he moved when he rolled them over, positioning himself over Francis’s hips and sinking down on him. Francis tried to breathe; felt like he was choking on air. Fitzjames did it again.

Francis let his head fall back into Fitzjames’s pillow and shut his eyes. If he looked at Fitzjames, the brazen way he fucked himself on Francis’s cock, Francis might spend then and there. The rhythm Fitzjames set was punishment enough for the long months of Francis’s absence. He would not hold up under the determined assault of Fitzjames’s affection.

Still, Fitzjames leaned forward, fitted a hand around Francis’s chin and turned his face towards him. “Is this good, Francis? Do you like it? Do I feel good? Please, tell me, I—”

Francis seized his hips and drove himself up to meet Fitzjames’s hips. Fitzjames’s voice was cut off by a breathless moan and Francis did it again; damning the heat in his stomach and the knowledge he would spend soon with no way to keep it at bay, not when Fitzjames’s body opened to him so easily. He wanted to make Fitzjames scream; knew it was ill-advised and still drove himself deep and deeper into Fitzjames’s body. He opened his eyes again and found that Fitzjames’s head had tipped back, his mouth hanging open in quiet rapture. The muscles of his body moved with every thrust of his hips. He seemed wholly overtaken by the feeling of being filled by Francis.

It was too much. The bliss on Fitzjames’s face, the tight heat of him, the rolling movements of his hips and the way he drew in Francis’s so easily, the hard line of his cock bouncing between them. Francis’s hands tightened around Fitzjames’s hips, pulled him flush against Francis’s hips as Francis tried to push himself deeper still into Fitzjames with helpless little movements, his muscles locked tight and screaming with the exertion before it washed out of him and he emptied himself into Fitzjames’s arse with a shout, spilling hotly into the greedy depth of it. One hand let go of James’s hip to pound on the bed as he lay helpless and felt it roll through him in hot waves.

He was dimly aware of Fitzjames half pitching forward, one hand braced against the bed and the other one on his own cock, pulling himself off with a furious desperation. Francis fumbled for it and James gave himself over gladly to Francis’s tight grip. He pressed out a gasp, canting his hips forward into the touch, Francis’s cock still buried in his arse and leaking. Could Fitzjames feel him? Did he know how deeply Francis had marked him?

“Yes, Francis, yes, right there—”

As though in answer to his question, Fitzjames called out, then went completely still over Francis, eyes screwed shut as though trying to keep tears at bay. His cock pulsed in Francis’s hand and then Francis felt Fitzjames’s spend paint his chest. His arse seized up around Francis’s cock, strangling a moan out of Francis. Too much, always too much.

* * *

Fitzjames used the water that was still in the basin out in the kitchen to clean himself up. Francis tried to, but he couldn’t look away from the place between Fitzjames’s buttocks where he had marked the man; and marked him well. His spend was dripping down Fitzjames’s legs in a slow, lazy trail that spelled out Francis’s claim clearer than words might have. Who else dared to touch Fitzjames thusly?

Even without the help of a candle it was light in the kitchen now. Day had dawned brightly, not a cloud in sight anymore. Fitzjames served them a porridge for breakfast.

“Will you ask Franklin for a new assignment?” Fitzjames asked. His tone was conversational, the subject matter fraught. Francis took a sip of his coffee—Fitzjames always burned it; didn’t quite know how to make it to Francis’s tastes. Not that there was a reason he should be able to.

Fitzjames, never a patient man, pressed the matter. “Will you be staying, Francis?”

“I haven’t decided yet,” Francis lied. It was a version of the truth, anyway. There was one last variable that had to slot into place before he could make a decision.

Fitzjames reached the conclusion only a moment later. Francis could pinpoint the moment by the hardening of Fitzjames’s expression, the suddenly determined set of his mouth.

“Again, really?” Francis shrugged. That inflamed Fitzjames further. “Jesus, man, she rejected you already. What do you think a second proposal will accomplish?”

“What business is it of yours?” Francis asked.

“What business, indeed,” Fitzjames said coolly.

Francis hated this part. Things were always easier when they didn’t have to speak. Fitzjames was the kind of man who constantly asked for more than Francis was willing to give.

“She won’t make you happy, you know.” Fitzjames had pushed back his chair, was getting up out of it now to pace the room. “Or don’t tell me you’ve given up bounty hunting as well. That I’ll find even harder to believe.”

“I—” Francis began, and Fitzjames scoffed. “No, of course not. Nothing’s changed. You certainly haven’t.”

He stood, one arm braced against the wall next to the window. The long lines of his body looked like those of a statue outlined against the bright morning light. Francis found him beautiful and forbade himself the thought. Fitzjames turned again.

“She won’t make you happy. You’ll be gone for months, and then you’ll come back home and she’ll be a stranger to you. She won’t make you happy.”

“Oh, but you would?” Francis spat. As soon as the words were out, he wanted to take them back—a step too far, a bridge he shouldn’t have crossed. Elevating Fitzjames anywhere near Sophia. It would only give the man ideas.

“I could come with you,” Fitzjames said.

“You? Out on the trail?” Francis scoffed. “That I’d like to see.”

Fitzjames was back at the table across from Francis in an instant. “I would do it, Francis. I’d prove it. Take me with you next time you go, and if I prove myself—” He faltered for an instant, and Francis saw a raw desperation in the wild eyes of Fitzjames. “—then you will not renew your suit.”

Francis leaned back in his seat; shook his head. “And why would I do that?”

A stunned look crossed Fitzjames’s face. Hurt, masking as offense. “Because if you don’t, you can forget about ever coming back here and fucking me.”

It was the coldest Francis had ever seen Fitzjames. Francis held his gaze, seeing if Fitzjames would break and apologise, but the proud set of his mouth spoke for itself. Francis pushed his porridge aside; got up.

“See if I care,” he spat, grabbed his bags and his coat and was out the door before Fitzjames had time to think of a response.


	2. Nothing Ain't Worth Nothing but It's Free

The wind had picked up again. Francis shivered as he saddled up Terror. He would see her stabled and then head to the main house.

The appaloosa nipped at his hand as Francis turned to lead him away from Fitzjames’s cabin. He shook out his hand. “You too?”

Terror huffed.

Franklin’s stablehand had been old man Bridgens for as long as Francis could remember. Francis’s earliest memory of him was of a kindly face poking out of one of the boxes, a small smile gracing his mouth and a book tucked into his back pocket. He took Terror from Francis, commenting on Terror’s health and the appaloosa’s beautiful coat like he always did. Francis nodded distractedly. His mind, the traitor, was still on Fitzjames.

There was light in the main house when Francis walked up to it. The first of the servants preparing breakfast, no doubt. Franklin wouldn’t be up before nine. The wooden steps creaked under Francis’s boots, and Francis couldn’t help but catalogue all the things that had changed and all the things that had stayed the same: somebody had re-painted the porch swing, but paint was still flaking off the beams, leaving them exposed to the weather. The wood was sun-burnt and splintering in places; begging to be replaced before year was out. In some other life, Francis would take care of it. Not in this one.

Francis announced himself to the servant who opened the door. Hoar knew him and let Francis into the drawing room while he went and fetched Mr Franklin. Francis folded his hands in his lap and tried his best to will away the bout of nausea. He shouldn’t have eaten the porridge. He shouldn’t have gone to see Fitzjames.

“Francis!”

Franklin’s voice was loud enough to wake the rest of the household, certainly. It boomed through the room, shook the paintings on the wall—some of them were Sophia’s, Francis noticed. She’d always had higher ambitions than befit a rancher’s daughter.

“You were gone long this time. Jane was afraid you’d died.”

The lady of the house would have liked that, no doubt. She had no love for Francis.

Francis drew himself up to shake Franklin’s hand. He’d dug the sheriff’s letter from his saddlebags earlier and handed it to Franklin now. Franklin eyed it critically. “Straight to business, hm?”

Francis answered with a pained smile. “I like to get it out of the way.”

It was never clearer to him than when he stood in Franklin’s drawing room: he did not belong here. He felt like the wood beam outside; rough and splintered and begging to be replaced. He watched Franklin as the man examined the contents of the letter and looked back up when he heard steps on the wood of the staircase. Sophia had come down.

Francis met her eyes, then turned away hastily. The image of Fitzjames flashed in his mind; the creamy white of his buttocks as he walked from the bed to the washbasin. A mistake. Franklin folded up the letter.

“All in good order. Vasquez is praising you in the highest tones, Francis. Seems you’ve managed to impress him.”

“Only doing my job,” Francis muttered. Sophia’s eyes were on him, he knew it. She had stopped halfway down the stairs, her delicate white hands on the railing. A lost look in her eyes. Once upon a time, Francis had thought he could bring her out of it.

“Will you be staying?” Franklin asked. Francis’s eyes flitted towards Sophia again, and suddenly he wanted nothing more than to get out of this dark house with its decorated walls and decorative furniture, a still life of a life.

“I came to ask for another job,” Francis said, holding Sophia’s gaze and watching as the set of her mouth transformed into that familiar curl of disapproval. Easier to disappoint her than to make her happy. Francis knew that well.

“Another one, hm? Autumn is fast approaching. Might be best to call it for the year.”

“Don’t worry about me, sir.” Francis drew his hands behind his back. He felt one wrong movement might send everything into chaos. “I can handle myself.”

“Alright, well.” Franklin paused for a second with a breath in his lungs, then exhaled and went over to the bureau. There, he drew up a blank piece of paper, dipped a pen in the inkwell, and wrote down a name. He passed the paper to Francis. The name on it was not familiar.

“You can ask Vasquez about the details,” Franklin said, no doubt thinking of Sophia on the landing. He never repeated the sordid details of business in front of her. That had been for Francis.

Francis folded up the paper. He patted his waistcoat where he stored it, then made the mistake of glancing over at Sophia again. She still hadn’t said a word. That, in itself, was perhaps the clearest thing she could have said. “I’ll be staying a day or two. If you have any other information, I’ll take it.”

He tipped his hat. Sophia didn’t say goodbye.

* * *

There was rain on the air when Francis stepped outside of the main house. The wind was pushing weather ahead of it fast, clear skies followed by torrents of rain, then clear skies again. Out on the prairie, Francis could see it coming from miles away. Between the houses, he felt blind, stymied.

It occurred to him that he had no place to stay. The thought of going back into the main house and ask Franklin to put him up as though he was still an esteemed guest of the family made Francis’s skin crawl. After his proposal had been rejected, Francis had shared Fitzjames’s house before heading out on his job.

He sighed. He could go back, get Terror, and pitch his tent a few miles away from the ranch. But with the storm rolling in quickly, he fancied that option even less. He shouldered his bag again and set off towards the blueberry bushes, the oak and the little house.

Fitzjames raised an eyebrow when he opened the door and laid eyes on Francis.

“That took her even less time than I would have imagined.”

“I didn’t ask,” Francis muttered. Fitzjames crossed his arms, then uncrossed them. “Will you?”

“Christ, James—"

“Will you?” Fitzjames pressed.

“I asked Franklin for another job. I’ll probably head out in a few days,” Francis said. It was an answer, if Fitzjames chose to read it as such. Fitzjames was practised at giving Francis’s words the most charitable interpretation.

“Come on in, then.”

Their porridge bowls had been cleared off the table. Francis sank back onto the familiar chair and Fitzjames sat down across from him. His neck had bruised where Francis had kissed him. He’d have to be more careful about that. Still, it pleased the jealous, possessive part of him. Let one of Fitzjames’s visitors lay eyes on that and know who Fitzjames belonged to.

“I’ll be heading out to the stable in a while. You’re welcome to the bed,” Fitzjames said.

“Thank you.”

Now that he had seen Sophia, exhaustion began to set in fast. He yawned, then shook his head to clear his mind. Fitzjames kept watching him. When he got up to begin his day’s work, his fingers trailed over Francis’s shoulder—a brief touch that made Francis doubt it had ever been there at all.

Francis went to bed. He buried his face in Fitzjames’s pillow, which still smelled like him, and sank into a restless sleep, as he did every night he had to spend under the roof of a house.

* * *

The days were shortening. Every minute of light that the tilt of the Earth’s axis shaved off Francis’s day became a tally mark, and he knew he would have to set out soon. A week, at most, probably less.

For now, he woke next to Fitzjames. A warm body next to his—a luxury, one they indulged in carefully, but indulge in it they did. When Francis woke with his nose buried in Fitzjames’s hair, arm slung across the man’s midsection and his prick stiff under his nightshirt, it didn’t take long for Fitzjames to press himself closer; rub his arse against Francis’s prick until Francis had quite ruined his nightshirt and was begging Fitzjames wordlessly to deliver him. And deliver Fitzjames did.

He sucked Francis’s cock that first morning they woke together, with such zeal that Francis wondered if he was setting out to prove something—that he was the better choice than Sophia after all, perhaps. Francis certainly would have believed him in the moment with Fitzjames’s mouth hot on his prick and a pair of deep brown eyes trained on Francis. Francis could feel his prick at the back of Fitzjames’s throat, tight around him.

He closed his eyes as he reached his end. Better not to be seen in that moment. But he watched with greedy fascination as Fitzjames righted himself and wiped his mouth of Francis’s spend.

He gave Fitzjames his fingers for it, the man hot and tight around him like his mouth had been. Fitzjames’s back arched and his prick jerked against his stomach as he came, chest heaving with the exertion of it, his arse clenching like a vice around Francis’s fingers.

Francis ate him up. When the week was out, he didn’t say goodbye. He never did. He left while Fitzjames was out with the herd, on a beautifully clear autumn morning, the skies golden with sunlight. He fitted his chair carefully back into its place next to the table, leaving no trace of his presence, like he would out on the trail.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This week’s song is Kris Kristofferson’s Me and Bobby McGee. In writing it, he was inspired by Federico Fellini’s _La Strada_. I can’t write about someone leaving behind a lover and _not_ include this song.


	3. World's Rotten to the Core

Autumn came and went. Francis spent the months of November and December with his old mate Tom Blanky, who had settled down with his wife a couple of years ago. Francis used to run with Blanky, back when jobs were easier to come by and the value of their lives seemed measly in comparison with the rewards of bringing in a mark. Blanky had managed to scrounge up enough money from these jobs for some land and the one-story building of the main house, which he’d built by himself.

The land didn’t give anything easily, but the farm had prospered, nevertheless. A second daughter had been born since Francis’s last visit, and he found he felt quite at odds with the comfortable domesticity of the household. Still, he and Blanky spent many an evening out on the porch, wrapped tightly in as many wool blankets as they could find inside the house, trading stories of their old days, the memories of which had taken on a gilded edge.

“Do you miss it?” Francis asked once, after a particularly bad day of fruitlessly trying to stifle the jealousy he felt at watching Blanky in this place where he so clearly belonged.

Blanky took a deep drag of his pipe. Moonlight fell on the snow, and despite the late hour the world was bright with reflected light: the moon borrowing sunlight, and the snow borrowing its glow from the moon. It was a light that drained all colour from the world.

“I remember enough to know that there’s not much to miss when it comes down to it,” Blanky said eventually, “But yes, I sure as shit miss it.”

In mid-January, Francis set out again, though the weather was still miserable. He made do with lesser acquaintances and erstwhile colleagues, people who were happy enough to let him stay a week or two. By early March, he found that his trek—in the treacherous way of wanderings without a goal—had brought him around to Farcross again.

He sighed, turning Terror towards Day Break.

* * *

The ranch’s day was in full swing when Francis caught sight of it. The road leading up to the main house, lined with little cabins, was busy in the middle of the day. People hung laundry, fed chickens, fixed fences and chatted with each other while stopping in the middle of the muddy road. A couple of farmhands were moving a herd of cattle, the sound of the animals’ lethargic protestations loud enough to deafen a man. Francis waited them out, greeted the passingly familiar faces, then headed up to the main house first, proud of his restraint. Franklin greeted him effusively.

“We’ve had need of you, Francis!”

With every year that passed, Francis grew more convinced that Franklin didn’t actually like him very much. He might have need of Francis’s skill in tracking people, and he might even respect his profession, but it seemed Franklin had little love for Francis the man. Most of their business dealings were conducted hastily, with Franklin devoting the minimal amount of time that politeness required for Francis’s concerns before moving on.

“You have?” Francis asked.

Franklin brought them into his office, motioned for them to sit.

“There was a murder in Farcross. A young man—a boy, really—murdered and stripped off all of his possessions. They found him washed up buck naked near Cross Run, where the water goes shallow.”

“Who was he?” Francis asked.

“No one really knew. He was passing through. Diggle said he’d been in the saloon asking for work.”

“And who killed him?”

“That’s the prize question,” Franklin said, leaning forward across his desk. “No one saw or heard anything. To be honest, it’s given all of us quite a fright.”

It was exactly the sort of provincial story that Franklin would find exciting. Francis would have rolled his eyes if he didn’t value a steady income so much. In Francis’s experience, there was no such thing as an unsolved murder, just communities turning a blind eye to each other’s dark spots. Like as not, half the town probably knew exactly who’d done it and was just pretending not to for the sake of the peace. That’s why he didn’t usually dabble in the solving of crimes—he fared much better when pointed at whoever the law had decided was guilty.

“You want me to have a look? Ask around?”

“Oh, that would be wonderful!” Franklin clapped his hands together. “It’ll certainly put Jane’s mind at rest. She’s hardly left the ranch since this whole business.”

Francis nodded, wearily. At least it would give him an excuse to stay for a few days, stock up on some provisions, and make plans. He didn’t want to spend another winter like this if he could help it.

“I’ll give it my best.”

Franklin shuffled through some papers on his desk, then patted his waistcoat. He came up empty-handed and shook his head. “Will you be staying at the house? I’ll send Hoar with something for your troubles.”

For a moment Francis considered the comforts of the estate—breakfast served at nine, servants to tend to the fires and books to peruse in the evening. To maybe stumble upon Sophia in the library and talk like they used to about a book that she had read and liked, or—if they were sure to be unaccompanied—stories of Francis’s last job. Sophia had always loved them, before she realised they would keep Francis away from her.

No. Francis could not stay here, not now. A couple of jobs more, with some money put aside perhaps, Francis would see her again. When he could promise her he’d stay.

“I was going to see if Fitzjames had room to spare for me.”

“Oh, Fitzjames?” Franklin was still preoccupied with the whereabouts of his wallet, shuffling through papers on his desk. He looked briefly at Francis. “He’s gone.”

“Out on the range? I’ll take his cabin, then. He won’t mind.”

Francis pushed back the chair. It was still early; he might scrounge up some supplies at the grocer’s and find time to prepare a real meal with the last of the game he’d shot. Fitzjames would appreciate that when he came back from the range.

“No, I mean—gone. He took a job in Annestown with a horse breeder. Said he’d help out with the roundup come summer, but who knows.”

Francis’s skin prickled cold.

“Oh well,” he said dumbly, “I can take the cabin, then?”

“Go ahead,” Franklin said, “I’ll send Hoar with the money later. We could always use a hand with the wrangling, if this turns up nothing.”

Francis nodded. He was processing the words in the most superficial sense only. His mind was stuck on the thought of Fitzjames. He found it was impossible to picture the little cabin empty.

But it was.

It looked like a corpse from the outside—still bearing the resemblance of a loved thing, even though there was no life left in it. Walking through the door, the stale smell of poorly aired rooms hit Francis. A fine layer of dust covered the floor. The cabinets were empty of Fitzjames’s knick-knacks; the assorted trappings that had defined his life gone. Francis stood in the middle of the kitchen and spun on his heels once.

He almost went back to the house. If Fitzjames thought he could punish Francis this way—to leave without notice, without regard for Francis—then Francis was no longer bound to Fitzjames’s opinion on Sophia. The fact that he didn’t concerned Francis.

Fitzjames’s sheets still smelled faintly like him. Francis wanted to throw them out, air the place—but with a handful of linen in his arms, the smell grew stronger and he found himself burying his face in them, chasing the memory of his most egregious lapse in judgement.

He didn’t change the sheets.

* * *

Annestown lay just under two weeks’ travel east of Day Break. It had been connected to the railroad twelve years ago and had since seen an influx of people seeking coal or gold or both in the mountains. Mostly it produced disillusioned men aplenty, haunting the narrow street and wooden cabins with empty eyes and grimy faces. Some of them were a few bad weeks away from being Francis’s next quarry. Others were a few bad weeks from starving.

Francis had no excuse for being here. He kept trying to come up with one—gun repairs he didn’t trust to backwater smiths, higher paying jobs or cheaper living, but nothing stuck. He knew why he was here. Francis might lie to others, but he couldn’t lie to himself.

He got a room at the hotel. The proprietor was perhaps the first man who didn’t look entirely despondent, though even he was worn by the lethargy of the city. He was an aged photograph of a man. The rooms, similarly, were adorned in the glory of twenty years past. Pretty, once upon a time. Now nothing but the memory of pretty, the ghost of it.

Where was he going to start looking for Fitzjames? He would try his luck with the livery, then see if there were any breeders in town, and if that failed work his way through the saloons until he found someone who had heard the name, perhaps. Or he might pack up and leave tomorrow; write this whole thing off as foolish.

The owner of the livery had only one man in his employ, a fifteen-year old freckled boy, and he hadn’t heard of or seen anyone matching Fitzjames’s description. Francis thanked him nevertheless, with a curt nod and a tight-lipped smile. He almost left, then. Back at Day Break, a job was waiting for him.

Instead, he asked them for directions.

There was indeed a breeder on the east end of town, where the road tapered off into something grass-lined and promising, an arrow pointing towards freedom. The owner was a tall widow with grey-streaked red hair.

“Fitzjames?” Francis nodded even as she crossed her arms in front of herself. She carried a small sidearm, which was only sensible in Francis’s mind. “Who wants to know?”

Francis had no doubt in his mind that she had sized him up the minute he walked through the door. There was nothing unobtrusive about the rifle on his horse, nor was it a gun particularly well-suited to hunting game.

“I know him from Day Break Ranch,” Francis said, which was not an answer, but at least in the neighbourhood of one. The woman eyed him critically for a minute longer, then jerked her head back towards the stables. “He’s out with one of the mares.”

Francis started walking when she grabbed his shoulder. “He’s a good man, alright? Don’t give him any trouble.”

Francis held her gaze. Tried to wordlessly tell her that he couldn’t make that promise. She let him go.

There was an enclosure behind the stables. Francis could hear someone talking in low, soothing tones. He rounded the corner.

It was indeed Fitzjames, kneeling on the muddy ground, hands outstretched towards a fowl that was wobbling forward on unsteady legs while its mother looked on with passing interest. Fitzjames’s face was open, expectant with a broad grin as the fowl took step after careful step, wavering but not falling. Francis stopped where he stood.

“That’s it, well done.” Fitzjames got up, ruffled the fowl’s mane, then made a face at the dismally muddy state of his pants. “You’ll be winning races soon enough, little one.”

Then he looked up. His eyes fell on Francis, and all the joy fell from his face.

“What are you doing here?”

Somehow, Francis hadn’t thought of an answer for that question coming from Fitzjames. When his mind failed to come up with an excuse, it reached for the truth.

“I was looking for you.”

Fitzjames looked skinnier, which made him seem taller. He’d gotten new clothes—a shirt that was so blue it reminded Francis of the summer sky and pants that, despite being covered it mud, looked finer than anything Francis had ever seen on him. His hair had grown over the winter, and he kept it tied back in an unfashionable ponytail that emphasised his angular features. Francis wiped his hands on his duster, suddenly aware of how sweaty his palms had become.

“You’ve found me,” Fitzjames said, crossing his arms and sticking his chin out. Francis struggled—he had never been received like that by Fitzjames.

“You weren’t at Day Break,” Francis said.

Something crossed Fitzjames’s face—a scoff, perhaps the realisation of why Francis had come, the pathetic nature of his search. “I had enough,” Fitzjames said, “Needed a change of scenery.”

“Come with me.”

Francis had once lost his footing crossing a river—his horse had stumbled, or slipped on an algae-covered stone, and the next thing Francis knew he was being carried downstream, the water beating him down cold, and hard, and fast. He had grasped for anything in that moment—a root, rocks so sharp they cut the skin of his hands. It didn’t matter. His mind had narrowed down to the need to break the surface. He felt the same panic now: He would have said anything in this moment.

He realised, in the few seconds of silence that followed, that he shouldn’t have said that.

“Come with you?” Fitzjames’s body shook with something that might be termed laughter, but his teeth were bared in a sneer. “Come with you,” he said—not a question. Not anymore. Francis looked away, embarrassed. He felt as though Fitzjames had caught him with his breeches down. His throat was tight. He could only wait for the arrow of Fitzjames’s response, to see whether it would strike true or spare him.

“Ask me again last September, Crozier.”

Francis forced himself to look up again. He hoped to find evidence of some conflict on Fitzjames’s face, any sign that this was hard for him. That—God forbid—he had missed Francis.

Fitzjames had already turned away.


	4. Cruel World, I'm Moving On

Petatawa was far enough from both Annestown and Farcross that Francis could breathe as he rode down main street. It wasn’t a large town by any standard, but at least it was a town, more than a ramshackle collection of buildings. It had rained two days ago, and Francis had to huddle miserably under his tent canvas as the wind drove the spring rain against it in great gusts. Puddles, remnants of that storm, shone in the morning sun, glinting like a strange sort of treasure. The wooden fronts of the buildings were painted in colourful but fading tones. Francis could hear the sound of chickens and goats and a couple arguing. It was loud enough to distract him. He liked it.

He stopped at the saloon first, because his whiskey had run out yesterday and he hadn’t yet figured out how to face his situation sober. It was busy in the way that saloons always seemed to be busy, no matter the time of day—Francis caught conversation in at least three languages and had to step carefully around a mug that slipped from a man’s grasp right before him. The barkeep gave him an appraising look as Francis leaned against the worn wood of the bar.

“Looking for work?”

Francis had never once in his life answered that question with a negative unless he was already on a job. He took the whiskey and nodded even as he knocked back his glass. “Sure.”

“Season’s starting, huh?” The man commented as he took Francis’s glass from him and refilled it. “People out on the road again. You might be out of luck. You’re not the first one to come through today.”

“In that case, I’ll just take a room,” Francis said. The second whiskey burned even better than the first. He fished a couple of bills from the bottom of his bag and dropped them on the polished surface in exchange for a rusty key and a third refill.

He spent the morning making visits to the grocer, the gunsmith, and the livery, stocking up on provisions and making sure that Terror was well taken care of. Then, with half the day still at his disposal, he went back to the saloon and inquired about a bath.

“Of course,” the barkeep said, “I’ll have my boy heat it up.”

In truth, it was little more than tepid, but Francis sank gratefully into it, nevertheless. There was a special luxury in submerging himself completely, in rubbing the pain from his tired muscles and in the simple but clean scent of the soap provided. He scrubbed at his head until his fingers felt raw, then dunked his head under the water. He massaged his feet and calves until most of the painful knots were gone from them.

He’d just closed his eyes and shuffled back in the tub until he could rest his head on the edge when there was a knock at the door.

“Excuse me, mister.” It was the barkeep. “Sorry to disturb you but the sheriff’s raising a posse. Man was killed near Swift Rock and they think the killer’s still out there.” A pause. “He’ll pay ten dollars.”

Francis raised himself out of the tub reluctantly. “Five minutes.”

* * *

There was a crowd of fifteen men gathered by the sheriff’s office when Francis arrived, his hair still slightly damp. One man whistled low under his breath when he spied Francis’s rifle. The sheriff was already splitting people up into groups.

“What’d I miss?” Francis asked the man who had whistled. He was short, younger than Francis, with a goatee that didn’t suit his face, and pale blond hair.

“They found the pastor dead out near Swift Rock. Sheriff thinks the killer couldn’t have gone far. He’s having us search the area in pairs.”

Francis nodded. Almost automatically his hands travelled their well-known path from the revolver on his right hip to his ammunition belt, to the shot he kept in the pocket of his duster and the strap of the rifle slung over his shoulder. When he looked up again, the sheriff was pointing at him.

“You. Go with him.” He pointed at the man next to Francis. “You two search the forest behind the ridge.”

The man with the goatee next to Francis gave a thumbs-up. “Clear as day, sir.” He turned to Francis. “Emmanuel. Pleased to meet you. You got a horse?”

He pronounced it the French way, emphasising the second half of the name more than the first _e_ where Francis would have placed the emphasis. Nothing else about his diction suggested a French origin.

“Francis Crozier, and I had it stabled this morning,” Francis said.

Emmanuel extended a hand. “Lead the way.”

* * *

The sun was grazing the treetops by the time Francis and Emmanuel reached the edge of the forest. In Francis’s professional opinion, it was too late to find any tracks that were still useable, unless the murderer was very stupid or had committed the further crime of negligence. The most they were courting was a broken ankle on one of their horses, but for ten dollars he’d give it an honest try.

“That’s a nice rifle you got there, sir.”

Emmanuel had been quiet on their hour out. Francis estimated him at no older than thirty, though even that might be pushing it. Perhaps the darkness of the trees and the prospect of a murderer on the loose frightened him.

“Is that a Springfield?”

Francis decided to indulge him. “You’ve got a good eye. It is indeed.”

“Always wanted one. Couldn’t justify the expense to the missus, though. _What do you need a rifle for, Emmanuel? Couldn’t even shoot the dog if you got it to stand still for you_.” Emmanuel sighed a dramatic sigh then grinned, crookedly. “Can’t a man want a nice gun just for the joy of it?”

Francis cleared his throat. “So who’s this priest?”

“Man named John Irving, sir. Been with the town almost ten years now. A God-fearing man, by all accounts.”

“Any idea why someone might want to kill him?”

Light was fading fast around them. What glimpses Francis caught of the sky between the treetops was a dark purple, and the thin sliver of the moon hung in the sky. Francis slowed Terror down and motioned for Emmanuel to do the same.

“Not the faintest, sir.”

“Hm.”

Francis surveyed the trees, squinting against the lack of light. Petatawa was to the south of them. Emmanuel had told him that the ridge where they had found Reverend Irving’s body was to the east of here. The forest seemed a logical hiding place for anyone looking to avoid being found until the morning.

“Are there any good hiding places around here?”

“I wouldn’t know.” Emmanuel shrugged. “Don’t have cause to come out here often.”

Francis pulled Terror to a halt. The appaloosa huffed out a breath when he swung out of the saddle. “We should go on foot. Our only hope is finding tracks, and we can’t do that on horseback.”

“Alright.”

Emmanuel joined him. Francis noted how confidently he moved him the saddle—he probably worked with horses on the regular. Francis focussed on the ground ahead of them, the mulch and moss and twigs that gave the forest floor its soft spring.

There was a profound relief that came with being busy. Walking with Terror’s reins in his left hand and the Krag rifle held loosely in his right, Francis wasn’t sure he could have confidently said who James Fitzjames even was.

* * *

They returned long after midnight, their boots muddy and their legs tired. Petatawa appeared like a dozen bright eyes blinking in the darkness before them. They hadn’t found a single track.

“I really thought we had him.” Sheriff Wallach was a man in his late fifties, looking as tired as Francis felt on his best days. “It’s no matter boys. You did what you could.”

He paid them without a prompt from either of them, which was a welcome surprise in Francis’s book. There were enough men who were happy to forget about promised rewards when the hunters came up empty. Francis tipped his hat.

“Better luck next time, sir.”

He and Emmanuel stepped out into the now empty streets. The thin crescent of the moon gave sparse, intermittent light, appearing and disappearing behind fast-moving clouds.

“You got a place to stay?” Emmanuel asked.

“I’m staying at the saloon.”

They stood for a moment. “Well—” Emmanuel said, “See you there tomorrow, maybe.”

Francis walked back. There were still a few stragglers at the bar, slumped over their corner tables. Francis gave the barkeep a curt nod. “No luck,” he said. The barkeep shook his head.

“Shame,” he said, “Still, thank you. Have a whiskey on the house.”

Francis wasn’t going to say no to that.

* * *

He came downstairs the next morning to find Emmanuel nursing a bowl of soup and a beer by the piano.

“Wife kicked you out?” Francis pulled up another chair.

“What? Oh. No. I mean, she’s—she died, a couple of months ago.”

Emmanuel shifted in his seat and put the spoon down with a little more force than necessary. He folded his hands together.

“I’m sorry to hear.”

“It’s fine,” Emmanuel said, picking up the spoon again. He seemed like a man who hated to stand still, always fidgeting or fiddling with something. “I was actually looking for you.”

“You were?”

The conversation paused as the barkeep brought Francis his stew. When he was gone, Emmanuel picked up the thread. “You’re a bounty hunter, right?”

Francis narrowed his eyes. “Occasionally. When the opportunity presents itself.”

“I was thinking,” Emmanuel said, scraping the bottom of the bowl with his spoon, “There’s nothing really keeping me here any longer. When you head out, I might come with you. If it’s no trouble.”

“I usually,” Francis said, walking the line between firm and gentle, “travel alone.”

“Of course, of course.” Emmanuel pushed the bowl away, raising two hands in a gesture of placating deference.

Francis focussed on his soup. It was good, if a little plain—definitely beat canned beans and day-old smoked meat, however. The beer didn’t look bad, either.

Emmanuel made no move to leave. Francis smiled at him twice over the rim of his bowl, hoping his stoic silence might eventually get the message across. The last thing he needed was a travelling companion. No, he hadn’t even wanted Fitzjames—

He set the spoon down with a definite clatter. Emmanuel jumped in his seat, but the grin was still on his face as though plastered there. It only broadened when Francis met his eyes.

“To the next town,” he said. It turned out that the only thing that frightened him more than companionship was the silence that came after James Fitzjames.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This week's song is Cruel World, a Willie Nelson song and also a part of the Red Dead soundtrack. I'm predictable like that. If you want to join the cowboy covers party, you can head over to my [tumblr](https://veganthranduil.tumblr.com/tagged/cowboy-covers-by-johis).


	5. Still Not Satisfied

The air was a sweltering, humid soup. The sun stood high above in the sky, its late summer heat flittering over the blackened grass. Francis wiped his forehead again, knowing it did no good. At least his hat kept the worst of the sun off his face.

He spied the herd of cattle a couple of miles out from Day Break, lazing in the afternoon heat by one of the streams that cut through the land. Most had crowded around the few trees that dotted the grass, their tails flicking lazily in the feeble pursuit of keeping the flies at bay. They certainly had the right idea of how to deal with this kind of weather. Terror had been moaning for the last couple of miles. He wanted his break.

Emmanuel had come with him for three weeks in the end, heading west with Francis until Francis announced, on a whim, that he’d be heading southwestwardly now. He’d been struck by the idea of some simple work, straightforward bounties and the Spanish cuisine. The heat had been more pleasant in the southwest. Dry, and fragrant, Francis had been surprised to find that he enjoyed it. He hadn’t been down there for the summer in a long time. He’d found work enough, for a couple of months.

Francis paused to let Terror drink from the stream and dip his own head into the pleasantly cool water. Terror whinnied like laughter when Francis emerged, hair dripping wet, the water running in rivulets down his face. He wiped it off, replaced his hat.

“Fine afternoon for a dip, sir.”

The voice came from the direction of the herd, and it made Francis’s blood freeze despite the temperature. He turned slowly, watching the figure cast into stark relief by the sun at its back come into focus. It resolved into the well-tanned, lithe figure of Fitzjames, hat drawn in his face and a cattle rod swinging in his hand. He had the sleeves of his shirt rolled up all the way past his elbows, showing off his elegant hands and wrists.

Was he hallucinating? The cooling effect of the water dissipated as Francis felt blood rush to his face. He swallowed.

“I—” He didn’t know what to say. “Hello, James.”

“Francis?” Fitzjames gazed out from under his hat, disbelieving. “Oh.”

Francis didn’t know what to do with his hands. Terror nuzzled at his chest, no doubt looking for treats now that he had drunk his fill. Francis pushed his head aside. He was still looking at Fitzjames.

Fitzjames took two more steps towards him. Francis’s tongue stumbled over a dozen questions—why was he no longer in Annestown, why come back here, was it because of him? His dignity ensured he asked none of them. He noticed Fitzjames’s knuckles were white around the cattle rod. Francis felt unable to move.

“I— _ah_ —it’s good to see you.” Fitzjames’s voice sounded hoarse.

Francis’s heart seized up painfully. _Ask me again last September_.

“Likewise,” Francis said. Oh, to be at the receiving end of a gentle glance from those brown eyes. Fitzjames closed the distance between them, holding a hand out towards Francis. Francis took it. He watched their handshake—a familiar ritual, made strange by what had transpired between them. Their hands, like creatures not entirely of their bodies, intertwined slowly, fingers twisting around each other and locking like ivy. He met Fitzjames’s gaze. That was all the answer he needed.

Fitzjames’s lips were dry, like he hadn’t been drinking enough while being out all day in the sun. Their warmth, after over eight months without them, thawed a place in Francis that even the sweltering summer sun hadn’t been able to reach. He pulled off Fitzjames’s hat, fitted his hand around the back of his head and pulled him in, holding him close.

He’d believed Fitzjames. Francis didn’t often come as far east as Annestown. For Fitzjames to retreat there had been a sign.

To come back here was a clearer one.

Francis was dimly aware of Fitzjames dropping the cattle prod. His awareness of Fitzjames’s long-fingered hands digging into his sides was much sharper and much more immediate, in the way it brought him flush against Fitzjames’s body. Francis gasped—wasn’t proud of it, but he was only a man, and his body reacted on memory more than rational thought.

They stumbled to the little grove of trees inelegantly. Francis shoved Fitzjames up against the nearest tree, grinding his hips against the hard line of Fitzjames’s prick. Fitzjames fixed his palms on Francis’s arse and hauled him closer still. Francis was on him again, tasting the salt of sweat on his neck. Terror whinnied, distantly. Fitzjames pulled off Francis’s hat. His fingers felt for Francis’s hair, anchoring him. Holding him close.

“Francis,” Fitzjames said breathlessly. Again, “Francis.”

Francis let go of him reluctantly. Fitzjames’s face was flushed, he was worrying his lip with his teeth. “Not by the road.”

Francis was surprised that there was still a road. That there was still a world outside the moment that had brought him back to Fitzjames.

He drew them into the shade of the tree, where its trunk and low-hanging branches shielded them from view. The smell of Annestown was back in his nose—the burning of coal and the toothache stench of steel. He kissed Fitzjames’s neck, more bruising than loving, surprised to find how much he was still hurting. He didn’t feel kind.

Did Fitzjames mean what he had said then? Those early weeks of March seemed like a bad dream now—the desolate townscape, the small, crammed houses and railway lines, and Fitzjames’s cold face. Between the bluebells and the green grass, with the warmth of summer all around them, for such a place and time to be real seemed an impossibility. But Fitzjames had promised Franklin he’d be back for the roundup and here he was. Perhaps that was all there was to it. Perhaps Francis had nothing to do with it at all.

“Don’t you have a herd to watch?” Francis asked, mouth dry from something other than heat.

“They’ll mind themselves,” Fitzjames said, pulling Francis in and locking one of his legs around Francis’s leg. There was an answer in that, should Francis choose to look.

Francis gasped; unmade by the sensation of Fitzjames’s body pressed against his. Fitzjames ground himself against Francis’s erection lazily, his eyes slipping shut in a flutter. Francis wanted to kiss his mouth, which was very red; settled instead for the neck by way of self-preservation. If he allowed him, Fitzjames would swallow him whole.

Francis fumbled between them, pulling Fitzjames’s prick free, closing a tight fist around him. Fitzjames whined. Francis stroked him, pressing his thumb against the head and watching Fitzjames’s eyes fly open. To have him like this again—pliant, like a man without shame—Francis felt that there was never any doubt Fitzjames couldn’t stay away from him for long. He was desperate for it.

“Francis,” Fitzjames said again, his voice wavering, and Francis wondered if that was forgiveness. Wondered if he wanted to be forgiven. What would it mean to stay here, in the Chinese finger trap of Fitzjames’s body, and never want to leave.

“Look at you,” Francis muttered, feeling the genuine flutter of wonder in his chest. He bit at the juncture of Fitzjames’s shoulder and felt him shiver in response. “Did you miss me, boy? Miss this?”

Fitzjames stilled. Francis, a hand still on the man’s prick, stilled in response.

“You must think me pathetic.”

Fitzjames turned his gaze to the side, lip caught between his teeth. Francis felt the clench in his stomach as Fitzjames’s face set itself into a familiar tableau—the arched eyebrow, lips drawn into a sneer.

“I didn’t mean—”

Fitzjames shoved at him. There was no force behind it, but Francis went immediately, stumbling backwards at such an open gesture of rejection.

“I—” He said again, but Fitzjames shook his head—once, and vigorously—and Francis shut his mouth again. He was already buttoning up his pants. “I am through with this, Francis.”

Francis scoffed, and Fitzjames’s gaze turned on him with all the intensity of a bull about to charge. “Don’t mock me. I am finished with you.”

Francis had never been a kind man, and he had spent his life in a business that rewarded callousness. His first instinct was towards cruelty. “We’ll see how that tune suits you when you’re desperate for a prick up your—”

“Do not,” Fitzjames said, “finish that sentence.”

It was a small credit to Francis that he didn’t. He could feel Fitzjames’s eyes boring into his back as he retrieved his hat and stalked back to Terror, the appaloosa traipsing in place, agitated by the raised voices. Francis dug a carrot out of the saddlebag to pacify him.

“I’ll only be here for a few days at most,” he said, “Come to ask the old man for another job.”

He didn’t mention the roundup, Franklin’s offhand remark about Fitzjames’s possible return come summer, and the foolish hope in Francis’s chest that had once again only served to ruin him.

“Good riddance,” Fitzjames said, purposefully loud enough for Francis to catch it.

* * *

Francis was held up at the stables where old man Bridgens once again inquired after Terror’s health, which expanded into a longer conversation about the horses that had been born on the ranch in Francis’s absence. Francis was grateful for the distraction. Fitzjames always left him feeling ill-at-ease, and the prattling of the old man about his horses was just the thing to take Francis’s mind off the nagging sensation that he should have done something different, should have found better words.

The sun had fallen behind the houses by the time Francis stepped out of the stables, which was a small blessing. The air was cool enough that Francis felt he could finally breathe. He wished now he’d had the opportunity for a wash—his skin was sticky from the road, but that would have to wait. He didn’t want to linger.

Franklin’s manner towards him was markedly cooled.

“Francis,” he said after the usual pleasantries, whiskey offered but denied because Francis had learned over the years that Franklin’s offer was always perfunctory, as the man himself abstained. “You disappeared rather suddenly.”

“Yes, ah—” Francis hesitated. “Personal business. I received a telegram.”

Franklin’s mouth twitched. Still, his voice was nothing but pleasant. “Nothing too terrible, I hope.”

“My sister,” Francis said and wondered in the same breath if any of his sisters knew he was still alive, “She took ill.”

Franklin’s office was, in many ways, the opposite of everything Francis enjoyed about being out on the trail: its walls were dark wood, giving the room the air of a cell. Heavy curtains drawn before the windows deprived Francis of even a view of the sky. On the wall behind Franklin, a painting—perhaps a grandfather or other relative of Franklin’s—mirrored Franklin’s expression of polite disdain.

“Well, be that as it may,” Franklin said after the silence had stretched into the uncomfortable, “We’ll see if we can’t find a task that’s a bit more… stimulating for you, no?”

Francis could hear the insult in it, wanted to rise to the bait but forced himself to swallow his reply. Franklin watched him, and Francis couldn’t tell if he was satisfied or disappointed. What drove Francis back here? Habit. An impulse towards self-punishment. And the idea that one day, he’d walk through the doors of the main house and no longer be a coarse nobody of a bounty-hunter but a well-to-do cattle farmer, a man of money. Someone worthy of a home, and the things that came with it—a wife, children, an uneventful death.

Franklin shuffled a couple of papers around.

“Some valuables went missing a couple of weeks ago. We suspected one of the servants, but then one of the ranch hands disappeared.”

Francis relaxed back into his chair. “You think he stole them,” he surmised.

“Precisely.”

“What did he steal?”

Francis might lack the social graces most people possessed, but there was little ground he found steadier than the routine of a job.

“Jewels, mostly. A ring that belonged to Jane’s grandmother.” Franklin waved his hand dismissively. “This is about the principle, Francis. There needs to be order, or we’ll never outgrow the backwater status of this country.”

Francis could care less about Franklin’s ideas of order, but he did care about getting paid.

“You want me to find him?”

This, at least, was familiar territory. More comforting than a winter spent alone because he was sure he wasn’t welcome at Day Break any longer. More comforting than Annestown. The reason for his discomfort remained at itch at the back of his mind.

“The reward will be handsome. Half of it is coming out of my own pocket.”

Francis nodded. “Is there anything else you can tell me about him?”

Instead of a response, Franklin reached for the bell on his desk. Hoar bustled in not two seconds after. “Yes, sir?”

“Find James and bring him here.”

Had Francis not given up religion long ago, along with most of his other worldly delusions, he would have ceased to believe in a merciful God in that moment. Franklin inquired after Francis’s sister over tea while they waited, and Francis made up some story he had trouble recalling later. He didn’t want to see Fitzjames—not now, and not in front of Franklin. But fate did not see it fit to spare him. 

There was a charming sunburn on Fitzjames’s nose when he stepped through the heavy double doors to Franklin’s office. The enchanting effect was ruined by the scowl on Fitzjames’s face that deepened when his eyes fell on Francis. He turned to Franklin, schooling his face into a haughty mask that Francis wanted to rip away. Damn Fitzjames and his arrogance to hell.

“How can I help you, sir?”

Franklin motioned for him to sit. Fitzjames did so carefully, his eyes passing between Francis and Franklin. Francis did his best not to look at him.

“Mr Crozier here has agreed to see if we can’t fix our little… situation, hm, James?”

Something passed over Fitzjames’s face—a storm cloud of indignance. “How does that pertain to me?”

“Well, you knew Mr Hickey rather well, did you not?”

Fitzjames crossed his arms in front of his chest. Francis would have rolled his eyes at the petulance of the gesture, but he was too enraptured by the scene in front of him—Fitzjames, fallen out of Franklin’s graces?

“We spent four days on the road together. I hardly worked with him once he was in your employ.”

“Still, would you be so kind as to give Francis a description?” Franklin was still the very picture of pleasantry, but there was a sharp edge to it.

“Of course,” Fitzjames said with a smile that was blatantly false, “What do you need to know?”

Francis shrugged. He clung to the fiction that this was nothing more than a routine interrogation in the hopes that it would help him forget just how much he wanted to rip Fitzjames’s clothes off and take him over Franklin’s ornate desk until he screamed Francis’s name.

“What he looked like. What he wore, how he carried himself. Any ticks, habits? The kinds of cigarettes he smoked, things like that.”

Fitzjames’s gaze darted back to Franklin. “He was shorter than me. A little shorter than you, perhaps. Blond. He wore a moustache, but I don’t know how much that’ll serve you. I never saw him smoke or drink.”

No drink, that was interesting. Francis had never known a thief who didn’t drink. Still, it was hard work identifying a man by the things he didn’t do.

“A little more specific, perhaps.”

“He was a man like any other, Christ,” James swore.

“Still, we need a description,” Franklin said, “Jane so misses that ring. Is there nothing else you can recall?”

Francis prided himself on seeing the blow coming a second before Fitzjames. Franklin had a way of shifting back in his seat when he was pleased with an idea of his.

“Nothing,” Fitzjames said, “I’ve told you before, I hardly _knew_ the man—”

“And yet you vouched for him,” Franklin said, “And then he robbed me.”

Fitzjames linked his hands in his lap. He was chewing the inside of his cheek. “If I no longer have your trust, then tell me, John.”

“Oh, nothing like that.” Franklin waved his hand. “But perhaps…”

Fitzjames’s eyes widened. He understood, then.

“Yes, I think that’s a capital idea. Why don’t you go with Mr Crozier? I will pay you both, of course. That way we can ensure the criminal is recognised and captured. _Alive_ , of course. We need to question him about where he fenced the jewels.”

“No,” Fitzjames said coolly. He kept his eyes fixed on Franklin, but Francis swore he could see his gaze flitting over to him for a brief second.

“I understand,” Franklin said. “But that does not reassure me of your innocence in the matter, James.”

“I had nothing _whatsoever_ —”

“Then prove it,” Franklin challenged. It was the first time Francis had ever heard him raise his voice. Fitzjames’s face was pale.

“I doubt Francis will want me as his partner.”

Francis’s stomach dropped at the word.

“I’m sure Mr Crozier can make an exception to any rule he keeps for the right reward,” Franklin said. Fitzjames was looking at Francis now, and the look in his eyes said it all—the unbridled hatred of it was begging Francis to say no, and that alone was reason enough for Francis to do what he did next.

“You have the right of it there, Mr Franklin.”

* * *

Later that evening, when Hoar had directed Francis to a room for the night, Francis threw open the windows in search of a cool breeze that might provide some relief from the oppressive heat of the summer. The air was as unmoved without as it was within, only more fragrant—horseshit and hay, prairie flowers and dung. Francis considered lighting his pipe, but it was late: the moon hung high in the sky already, casting the ranch in an eery, colourless light.

There was a figure making its way towards the house.

Francis drew back into the shadows of his room on instinct. He couldn’t have said what prompted him—there was little that should lead him to expect foul play—but his curiosity dictated that he should remain unseen by the late-night visitor.

A knock on the door. The man was directly under Francis now, by the servant’s entry. Someone opened the door.

“I want to speak to John.”

It was Fitzjames. Francis should have guessed as much from the lithe figure and gait. He could make out a hushed protest from one of the servants who had opened the door, and then again Fitzjames’s voice, more insistent— “I will speak to him _now_.”

The servant must have retreated, for there were no more words exchanged. Francis stepped a little closer to the window. From here, he could just about make out the figure of Fitzjames, pacing up and down in front of the servant’s entrance, arms crossed before his chest. When the moon fell on his face, Francis caught sight of him worrying his lip between his teeth.

“James? What’s the matter? Jane and I had already retired for the evening.”

Fitzjames turned at the sound of Franklin’s voice. Francis could not see Franklin from where he stood.

“John—” Fitzjames sounded harried, a man making a last plea before a jury ready to drag him to the gallows. “I am asking you to consider your decision one last time. It’s not fair, and we both know it. There’s no crime for which you can punish me.”

“Come now, James.”

The paternal tone of Franklin’s voice was deceptive. Francis had thought it genuine fatherly care, once upon a time, but Franklin wasn’t a sentimental man. He thought of business first and people second, and that must have been the snare that caught Fitzjames.

“This isn’t a punishment. It’s a chance for you to redeem yourself.”

“Why would I need redemption if I committed no crime?”

Francis knew the tone of that—Fitzjames’s pride, the damned thing. Was that why he had stayed, even after Franklin blamed him for this? For his pride, of all things?

“Why would you need my forgiveness if you are not guilty, James?”

In the moment’s silence that followed, Francis heard only the sound of the crickets, broken by the far-off yip of a coyote. He could see James nodding, his lips pressed together tightly.

“Goodnight, John.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This week's song: [Ruby, Are You Mad At Your Man?](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MV6Xs-0jmeQ) as sung by the amazing, talented Rhiannon Giddens. Seriously, you haven't lived until you've seen her play a banjo.


	6. Particular Demons

Fitzjames’s horse was a prissy Standardbred with a chestnut coat that shone like fire in the sun. It suited him, in Francis’s mind—a showy horse for a showy man. She trotted lightly alongside Terror, fussing little under Fitzjames’s gentle hand. He did know his riding.

The morning’s ride saw them in Farcross before noon without a word exchanged between them. The little collection of houses had been connected to a telegraph line two years ago and since seen a slow increase in cattle ranchers moving in, and mostly moving out just as quickly. Land wasn’t as plentiful up here as it used to be. Francis eyed the humming lines with a suspicious eye as they rode along.

The road through Farcross was muddy from last night’s rain. They stopped at the general store first, stocking up on provisions for their journey. Fitzjames purchased a bedroll and a tent. Francis watched him handle the items from the corner of his eye, the way he hefted their weight—unpractised—under his arm, then reached for his provisions with the other. Francis stepped up. “Let me.”

Fitzjames glared at him. “I’m fine.”

He laboriously stashed the items in his bag. Francis shrugged and left him to it.

Next up was the boarding house where Hickey had stayed. According to a ranch hand he had worked with, Hickey had mentioned a friend there, once. The boarding house stood on the eastern edge of town, three stories tall and rickety as anything Francis had seen, near bent out of shape by the winds. It was run by an elderly woman named Therese Finkel. She let them in but kept a suspicious eye on them as she led them to her kitchen.

“I don’t want any trouble,” she explained in heavily accented English. German, or Polish, Francis’s ear couldn’t settle.

“And you’ll have none from us, ma’am, if you answer a couple of questions,” he reassured her. He settled in a chair, making sure that his duster didn’t fall over where his Smith & Wesson model 3 was holstered. Fitzjames, for reasons entirely his own, chose to remain standing, eyeing the porcelain plates with intricate drawings lined up on high wooden shelves.

“We’re looking for a man. Lived here a while ago. Might have been going by the name Cornelius Hickey.”

The old woman’s eyes narrowed. “And what do you want with him?”

Francis hated it when they got clever. “Ask him a couple of questions,” he said with his best approximation of a reassuring smile. Therese shook her head vigorously. “Oh no you won’t, sir. I know your type.”

“My type?”

“Headhunters,” she spat, “Lowlife scum whose business is the business of others. I want nothing to do with you.”

Francis exhaled. He hated to play it this way. In one fluid movement, he unclipped the knife from his belt and slammed it into the table. “It’s either trouble for him or trouble for you, ma’am,” he said, his tone pleasant the entire time.

Therese glowered at him. Fitzjames, behind Francis, sighed audibly.

“He lived upstairs. Shared the room with Billy. Didn’t make no trouble. Nice young man.” She paused. “Unlike you.”

“This Billy,” Francis said. “Does he still live here?”

Therese nodded. “Third floor.” Francis pulled the knife out of the wood, then motioned for Fitzjames to follow him.

“I finally get to see the fabled Francis Crozier in action,” Fitzjames muttered when they had left the kitchen behind. “Tell me, do you usually threaten old women before lunch?”

“Only when my work demands it,” Francis answered curtly. He wouldn’t be lectured by the likes of Fitzjames—men who didn’t know the kinds of things he’d seen, and what this work asked of a man.

He located the staircase easily enough. It was narrow, and they went up one after the other.

“I’m merely suggesting that there are methods that might yield a higher success rate than terrifying your witnesses.” Behind Francis, Fitzjames held up his arms in a placating gesture. “Take this Billy, for example. Will you threaten him, too?”

“If I have to,” Francis said. He reached the landing of the first floor when Fitzjames put a hand on his arm. Francis suppressed a violent reaction.

“Why don’t you let me take the lead?”

Francis mustered him. There was the challenge in Fitzjames’s eyes again—he was out to prove something. Well, Francis could always threaten Billy later. “Alright,” he agreed.

The smell of working men hung heavy in the air of the boarding house, though the floors were clean. In Francis experience, it was impossible to keep any space inhabited by unmarried men free from the fact that they would not wash as often as their mothers had taught them to. There were four rooms on the third floor—two of them clearly uninhabited. Fitzjames chose the first door down the left. He raised his hand, but hesitated with his fist poised over the wood of the door. “It might be best if you wait on the landing. Less intimidating that way.”

Francis hoped to be intimidating on a good day, but if Fitzjames thought he had the run of it, Francis was going to let him try it his way. He’d come round to Francis’s way of doing things soon enough.

He settled himself on the landing so that he could just barely peek over the floorboards. The handle of his revolver was smooth under his hand.

Fitzjames knocked. There was the sound of footsteps, and then a man opened the door.

He was a little taller than even Fitzjames. His blond hair curled tightly around his face, which was pale and beset by shadows. He looked like the paintings of martyrs that Francis had seen in the churches down South—beautiful in a sense that was neither masculine nor feminine, but ethereal. “How can I help you?”

Francis’s attention shifted back to Fitzjames. Something had changed about his demeanour. He was holding himself differently and looking at Billy—Francis was relatively sure that it was him—in a way that made Francis want to slam the door shut in Billy’s face.

“Are you Billy?” Fitzjames asked and Christ, he didn’t even sound like himself, not with his voice barely a wisp of what Francis knew it to be, making him sound younger. Innocent. A man with hopes that the world hadn’t yet beaten out of him.

“Who wants to know?”

Fitzjames shifted his stance again, putting Francis in the mind of a nervous suitor or, more apt yet, the young maiden waiting for said suitor. He ran a hand through his hair, making it seem like a nervous habit instead of the gesture of vanity that it was. Francis detested him utterly.

“I should go,” Fitzjames said, and Francis wanted to scream no, he should not go, the man was cagey and behaving suspiciously, he evidently knew where Cornelius was or at least he wasn’t quite the trustworthy man he pretended to be, but Billy extended a hand. “No, wait—”

Fitzjames looked up, and there was something hopeful on his face. Francis had seen that expression turned on him only once or twice before, and he had always hated the strings attached to it. To see it in this context was obscene.

“What do you want?” Billy asked.

“I work at Day Break Ranch,” Fitzjames said, “I was working with Cornelius on the barn until he didn’t show up to work one day. He said he was staying in town with someone named Billy, so I thought—”

Fitzjames ducked his head. The low light had Francis convinced that there was even a blush colouring Fitzjames’s cheeks. Billy’s face seemed to light up and break at the same time.

“Cornelius,” he said, then shook his head, “Guess I should have known.”

“Do you know where he went?” James asked, still with that hopeful and innocent expression.

“You shouldn’t waste your time with him,” Billy said sourly. Francis knew that expression. He’d worn it before upon leaving the main house of Day Break Ranch and Sophia behind. James shook his head. “I have to try.”

“Then you’re a better man than me,” Billy said. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “All he told me was that there was a man in Tuckerrock. Someone he trusted. I don’t know if that’s where he went, but he evidently couldn’t stay here.”

“Thank you,” Fitzjames said. Billy nodded, defeat colouring his face. “Tell him he doesn’t need to show his face here anymore.”

* * *

Francis couldn’t even look at Fitzjames, could barely keep from screaming as they headed down the stairs. He wanted to strangle the man. He would spurn Francis but privately fuck the first best boy that presented himself?

They emerged into the bright day, sun now just past its noon-point, and Francis spun around.

“What the fuck was that?”

“What was what?” Fitzjames, always the bloody picture of innocence.

“You damn well know what I’m talking about.”

Fitzjames sighed. “At least he won’t be running to the telegraph office to inform Hickey that we’re coming.”

Fitzjames had brought him to Day Break. The thought reared its ugly head again.

“You fucked him,” Francis hissed, careful to keep his voice down even though he would have just as soon shouted at the man before strangling him.

“I—no!”

Francis pointed an accusing finger at him. “Then how did you—Billy—how could you have known?”

Fitzjames scoffed. “A blind man could have seen that. Though maybe not one as wilfully blind as you.”

“Have you no shame?” Francis asked. “By Christ, you were damn near _throwing yourself_ —”

“Are you jealous, Francis?”

Fitzjames had crossed some of the distance between them. He was suddenly far too close for comfort. Francis could smell the sweat of the day’s ride on him, and it reminded him of—no. That was over, and for good. Francis would do well to put thoughts like that out of his mind.

“There’s nothing to be jealous of,” Francis said.

“Damn right,” Fitzjames said, the look in his eyes burning Francis. “You don’t own me.”

With that he turned and stalked off towards Erebus. She welcomed him with a quiet whinny, nuzzling against him, and Francis cursed horses and waif-like boys and everybody else who seemed to like Fitzjames better than he did. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This week's song is [Me and Big Dave](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QySNqSdBzIM) by Colter Wall, which is a song about getting really high with a friend, but also a song about society judging you. Make of that what you will.


	7. Freedom Waits for Me

The way west to Tuckerrock was familiar to Francis: he’d come this way when riding back to Day Break from his trip southwest. It was empty country, revealed under an impossibly large and impossibly blue sky. Most nights, they made camp by a stream or sheltered by some trees, with stars that seemed to grow more numerous every time one looked away.

They spoke only of the necessities—would James please pass the beans, would Francis take first watch, would they have to shoot a squirrel or two to supplement their provisions before stopping in the next town. Despite being surrounded by the landscapes he knew so well—his home turf, the plains and back country—Francis felt ill-at-ease. Fitzjames’s presence sat like a cage around his heart, a stone in his boot.

There had been times when they’d gotten along tolerably, back when they’d first met at Day Break. They had shared a love for riding. Fitzjames had spoken to Francis about the weeks he spent out with the herd, how there was no freedom quite like it, just the country and the solitude, and Francis had felt like he understood. In turn, he’d talked to Fitzjames about all the parts of the country he’d seen, places Fitzjames hadn’t been, and sometimes they’d talked about seeing those places together. It had all changed the first time they fell into bed.

They weren’t men who dealt well with vulnerabilities, Francis thought bitterly. To have this sword of Damocles hanging over their heads, suspended not by a hair of a horse’s tail but the far more brittle thread of their mutual regard, ruined them for each other. It couldn’t last. That Francis had not ended it sooner was a personal weakness. It might have spared them from ending up on the road to Tuckerrock.

To his credit, Fitzjames never complained. Perhaps he feared losing face in front of Francis. He completed his tasks quickly and efficiently—Francis hardly ever had to direct him. There wasn’t so much as a groan from him when the soft grass of the prairie began to give way to coarser land, and what little luxuries a journey such as this afforded fell by the wayside.

Francis caught himself watching Fitzjames more often than he liked: when they were riding, or when Fitzjames set up his tent. He wore the privations of the road well; they only served emphasise how handsome he was, whether he was sweating through a day’s ride or chopping wood. Francis admired him begrudgingly. It would have been easier if Fitzjames disappointed him—in Francis’s mind, Fitzjames might complain about the lack of seasoning in their food, the cold winds that heralded an early autumn, or the soreness of his behind from the day’s ride, and Francis would sneer at him and tell him that he wasn’t cut out for the road after all.

Once or twice, Fitzjames caught him looking. Each time, Francis quickly looked away.

Erebus didn’t have trouble keeping up with Terror, though she could hardly be used to the long cross-country treks that were Francis’s habit. Fitzjames fussed over her every night they made camp, probably worried about her ability to win him prizes in the future. Really, a racehorse. Francis might have laughed. 

Once, as they were waiting for their meal to cook—Francis had shot a deer that day—over the groaning and flickering flame of the campfire that spread the smell of pine needles over their camp, when Fitzjames’s eyes looked darker than during the day, Francis wanted to tell him to be careful with his wishes. Even an outburst from Fitzjames would be preferable to the blasted silence between them. If Francis poked and prodded long enough, he might find a way under the cold, hardened shell that Fitzjames had drawn around himself. Robbed of the opportunity to make him scream in pleasure, a scream of anger might do. But Francis didn’t. When he thought himself unobserved, Fitzjames’s forehead creased, and there was a troubled look in his eyes.

Too much of an easy mark. Or so Francis told himself.

* * *

The towns seemed to shrink the further west they got, shedding necessities until they were barely accumulations of houses, then a homestead or two dotting the landscape at irregular intervals. Tuckerrock was a city by comparison, with two saloons, a hotel, and a post office that employed more than one tired clerk. Francis fancied he could feel the breath of steam down his neck and hear the singing of the telegraph lines. Civilization. He had come to recognise its harbingers.

Francis suggested they take a room at the hotel. Placing them at the centre of the town increased their chances of running into Hickey, or at least someone who had seen him. Their rooms were adjacent, clean if a little small, the mattresses soft. Francis closed the door to his room, then leaned against the closed door. Alone, for the first time in weeks. He washed himself, then washed his clothes. Naked and scrubbed pink, he slipped under the sheets, the cotton cold on his skin.

That first night, Francis lay awake far too long in the dark room, listening to the raucous sounds from the saloon across the street, wondering if—should the voices fall silent for a moment—he might be able to make out Fitzjames’s breathing through the wall. It was too quiet without him, after their weeks on the road.

The next day, they combed the town—separately, so as to be more approachable, less conspicuous. Fitzjames brushed off Francis’s suggestions for underhanded interrogation techniques rather briskly. He needed no pointers, he told Francis with an irritable shake of his hair.

Francis spent the day at the saloon. A rather large sum of his last job’s earnings were sunk into whiskey for himself and a range of conversation partners, who were glad for the company but couldn’t provide much useful information beyond town gossip. Francis spoke to a young man whose brother had died, another who had lost his job. There was a man who turned out to be a priest trying to sell Francis on Jesus and the promise of salvation. Francis wondered how many turns of the rosary it would take to erase the mark on his soul but formulated a gentler rebuttal for the priest. Best not to draw too much attention. By the time he returned to the hotel, it was far too late to still check on Fitzjames—his door was closed, and Francis supposed he’d gone to bed.

He still lingered in front of the door a moment. Imagined pushing it open and slipping inside. Imagined a world where he might find a welcome behind that door. He considered the brass door knob, worn and polished by the hands that had passed over it. Then he went to bed alone.

They met back up over breakfast the next day, Francis’s head pounding, swapping information they’d gleaned on their day about town. Two of the patrons of the hotel greeted Fitzjames as they passed, evidently already acquainted and friendly with him. Francis stared into his coffee and grit his teeth.

He was glad to part ways with Fitzjames for the day. The air was fresh and warm, the sun bright in the sky. Too beautiful of a day to spend it turning his thoughts around how precisely he had wronged Fitzjames, or to lose himself in fantasies of tearing out his pretty hair. Thinking to stock up for the next leg of their journey, whenever that would be and wherever it would take them, Francis headed down to the general store.

“I don’t have it in cash, sir, I’m sorry.”

The bell above the door chimed out a clear note when Francis pushed the door open. The store was situated on the ground floor of a two-story home, a little worn but orderly, shelves stacked all the way up to the ceiling. At the sound of the bell and Francis’s boots on the wood of the floor, the two men by the register turned—the shopkeeper, wedged behind the counter like time had moulded him into place, and a familiar figure: shorter than Francis, his hair a little longer than when Francis had last seen him, his moustache neatly trimmed and an open palm extended towards the shopkeeper.

“Emmanuel!”

Emmanuel snatched his hand closed and turned. Francis only just caught sight of something metal.

“You know this gentleman, sir?” the shopkeeper asked.

Francis opened his mouth, but Emmanuel was faster. “It’s a simple business transaction. I’m willing to pay in gold.”

“Gold, huh.” The shopkeeper scoffed. “I don’t take kindly to being lied to, son.”

Francis knew these kinds of people, people like Emmanuel—the ones who were beset by bad luck like a pack of wolves that had caught a scent. Emmanuel had always given Francis the impression of someone just a little too clueless for his lack of good fortune: earnest where he shouldn’t be, trusting where caution was in order.

“My—” he said, considered _friend_ , then settled for, “—acquaintance didn’t mean to offend.”

Emmanuel made an effusive, _there-you-have-it_ gesture. The shopkeeper peered critically at Francis over the edge of his spectacles.

“Here,” Francis said, producing a billfold from the pockets of his duster. “How much does he owe you? Put it on my tab. I’ll pay in cash.”

“Oh no, you don’t have to—”

Francis raised a hand. Emmanuel fell silent.

“It’s nothing,” Francis assured him. A bit of canned food, some horse feed at the most. Francis had been in this situation before. The less said about the embarrassment of it, the better.

The shopkeeper shrugged. Francis, satisfied that the situation had been resolved, considered his own purchases—his own canned goods, another blanket for the colder nights, a bottle of cheap bourbon, oats for the horses. Emmanuel hovered as Francis paid, then quickly grabbed his purchases like he was afraid the shopkeep might change his mind. They strolled down the thoroughfare together, settling on a bench by a park that was little more than a fenced in patch of grass.

Francis—one eye always turned to his surroundings—couldn’t help but notice the families, men and women, some of them with children, who were making use of the sparse grass for a stroll. The men were well-dressed and clean-shaven, the women clad in practical but beautiful dresses, chiding their children. Francis had learned to live with the particular jealousy that settled in his gut at the sight of them, but its sting didn’t ease.

Just one more job.

“You seem to have done well for yourself since March.”

Emmanuel, too, was watching their surroundings, though his eye seemed turned to the bustling thoroughfare: the wagons and horses with their rattling and whinnying, the barking of dogs and drone of conversation in the background. Francis wondered what he saw that filled him with envy. There was always something. Man just worked that way

“Good bounty hunting in the southwest,” he said, “Not much law down there.” The truth was, his life felt like it had only gotten worse since March. “What brings you here?”

Emmanuel’s mouth twitched—looking, Francis thought, uncomfortable, but then he stretched out on the bench like a cat lazing in the sun. “You ever get the feeling that your past doesn’t leave you, Mr Crozier?”

Francis scoffed and shook his head. “We all have that problem.”

Emmanuel clicked his tongue. “Not me. I’m gonna get away from it all. There has to be a place, somewhere in this country. It’s big enough.”

He was young, Francis remembered. Young and a widower.

“Let me give you some advice,” he said, “Some problems you can’t outrun.”

Emmanuel narrowed his eyes. Francis would have sighed—they never understood, not until they were his age and realising that in truth it wasn’t the world what was miserable, but they were. Francis had made his peace in the valley of self-deprecation. He wasn’t sure Emmanuel could.

Francis stood. “Well. It was good to see you, in any case.”

Emmanuel jumped from his seat. “Please. Let me give you the ring at least. For your troubles.”

“Now, you don’t have to—” Francis wanted to press the ring back into Emmanuel’s clammy hands, but Emmanuel refused to take it back.

“It was my wife’s,” he said, “And I don’t want it anymore.”

“Pawn it,” Francis said. Emmanuel shrugged. “Already gifted it. Believe it’s bad luck if I ask for it back now.”

Francis pocketed the ring reluctantly.

They parted ways by the saloon, where Emmanuel had taken rooms. Francis went in search of more whiskey and Hickey, in that order.

* * *

The third night, instead of bidding goodnight in the hallway, Fitzjames shuffled into Francis’s room after him, closing the door softly. They’d been drinking down in the lobby, sharing information and then strained conversation, under which Francis felt something like their old familiarity emerge. Still, he near froze when—after bidding him goodnight by the door—Fitzjames pressed into the room after him, close enough that Francis could feel the brush of his clothes. His breath shallowed.

He felt a tingling in his limbs that might have been a warning. Carefully, he took of his duster, hanging it over the chair, then unbuckled his holster. It might as well have been for nothing—when he turned, Fitzjames wasn’t looking at him.

“Sheriff’s crooked,” he said, leaning against the vanity that had been crammed up against the wall, legs crossed at the ankles. The weeks on the road had only deepened the golden-brown tone of his skin, making his eyes shine. Francis looked away, hoping to still the thundering of blood in his ears, and elsewhere.

“How do you know?”

Fitzjames shrugged, affecting an air of mystery. When Francis arched an inquiring eyebrow, he relented. “I took a stroll through the alleys behind the sheriff’s office earlier. There’s a window that goes out to a chicken coop. You can hear _most_ interesting conversations.”

Francis rubbed his chin. “What do you make of it?”

Fitzjames shrugged. “Hickey said he knew a guy in Tuckerrock. I say it’s the sheriff.”

Francis took off his boots as he thought it over. A crooked sheriff wasn’t a surprise—shouldn’t be the way of things, but then Francis shouldn’t be calling someone like Fitzjames his lover, if that was what they had been. The world was a far cry from _should be_.

“We don’t have the money to bribe him,” Francis said. The days at the hotel were already eating through their reserves—Francis’s reserves—much faster than they could afford. His blood was still up from the moment of foolish anticipation he’d allowed himself. “Unless you want to try what you tried with _Billy_.”

Fitzjames’s mouth twitched in a sneer. “You spend a lot of time thinking about that, Francis?”

Francis pursed his lips, caught. “No,” he lied.

“In any case,” Fitzjames continued after a moment of Francis squirming under his gaze, “let that be my concern.”

He left soon after that, leaving Francis to nurse the fantasies of petty revenge in his heart—how he’d hurt Fitzjames just as well as Fitzjames had hurt him one day, to make it all worth it. Then Fitzjames might see him again.

* * *

“Mexico.”

Fitzjames dropped two beers on their table with a heavy _thunk_ , then draped himself on his chair only a little more elegantly. He was wearing the blue shirt, the one he’d worn in Annestown. It contrasted nicely with his darkened skin, though the memories that came with it cut Francis every time he looked at it. He’d washed his hair, too, or brushed it out into gleaming curls.

“What about it?”

Fitzjames took a long drink from his beer. Francis watched the muscles of his throat work, the beat of his pulse under the skin of his neck, then looked away.

“I had a chat with the lovely Sheriff Tozer. Apparently, Hickey’s off to Mexico.”

Francis reached for his own beer, to still his hands more than anything. He’d already been drinking when Fitzjames came into the hotel lobby with a spring in his step and a grin on his face.

“Uninspired,” Francis commented, “Sloppy. They send bounty hunters all the way to Tahiti now. Where does he think he’s going?”

Fitzjames frowned. “I’m sorry this hunt isn’t exciting enough for you.”

Francis sighed. Fitzjames was right, he should be grateful they had a direction. “Any word which way he’s going? There’s about a hundred ways to cross the border.”

“Solomon said something about a trail through the desert.”

There was something in the way he said it—bait on a hook, dangled in front of Francis’s face. But for the first time, Francis didn’t feel inspired to take it. He felt a memory like the tingling of fingers down his spine.

 _El Camino Del Diablo_.

“I know it.”

He thought of Blanky, skin red and blistering, peeling in places, and the haunted look in his eyes. Thought of Ross, the forced smile on his face the only thing keeping him together. Thought of three weeks spent south of the border, waiting on news from his friends, the ever-same walk to the perimeter of the town. The refusal of the rest of his group to go look for the others his main reason to work alone now.

“We’ll need water,” Francis said, “Plenty of it. That’s a two-week trip and we can’t count on much on the way.”

He paused, then. Before Fitzjames mentioned the desert, Francis would have said that nothing could keep him off Hickey’s trail—but Hickey was likely to die out there anyway. The desert had nearly killed Tom Blanky and James Ross, two of the most hardened bounty hunters Francis knew. Why should Francis risk his life out there? For Franklin’s family jewels?

Then he remembered Fitzjames, and Franklin’s ultimatum.

“James,” he said. Pursed his lips in search for a gentle way to put his thoughts. “We don’t have to do this.”

“What?”

Francis grasped his glass of beer tighter, feeling the pearls of condensed liquid under his fingers. “I’ve never been this way, but some friends of mine—they nearly died out here a few years back. It’s dangerous.”

Fitzjames was still frowning.

“Go back to Annestown,” Francis said, “Or find something else. You don’t have to see this through because your pride’s been injured.”

Fitzjames was biting the inside of his cheek. Francis knew he wouldn’t see reason—and yet hoped beyond hope that Fitzjames might take his earnest advice as nothing but that: the concern of a man who still cared for him, despite everything that had transpired between them. If not, it would be the desert for both of them.

“If Hickey is going south, that’s where I’m going,” said Fitzjames. He held his beer in one hand, leaning back on his chair and affecting a casual air, but there was tension underneath. It had been with him since they left Day Break, but he had born their privations thus far.

The desert would be a different animal entirely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This week's song is [Old Mexico](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OcJf1QZb0W4) by Marty Stuart and his Fabulous Superlatives! The entire album is just a whole Southwest vibe. Also yes, Marty Stuart is the reason I own a mandolin now.


	8. If It Hadn't Been For Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains the first (very very slightly) graphic description of a dead animal. For the precise content warning, refer to the end note.

James picked their campsite the first night, spotting it just as Francis was eyeing the angle of the sun, wondering whether they should press on or stop for the night. When sunset hit, it always hit suddenly.

“Why don’t we make camp here?”

They had made a little under fifty miles on their first day. Francis was afraid of pushing the horses too hard in the heat and was leaving both them and Fitzjames and him time to acclimatise. The desert was creeping up on them slowly, all sagebrush and tall saguaros. When the light fell away, the long-armed cacti looked like haunted figures, arms raised in surrender against an unseen enemy. It unnerved Francis.

Pulled from his contemplation, he followed where James was pointing. He’d made out a shallow depression that would shield their fire from the worst of the wind that blew over the high plain. “Sure.”

Francis pulled Terror around. The appaloosa followed with a huff. Erebus trotted in second place; her steps always daintier than Terror’s. In turning, Francis briefly caught Fitzjames’s eye, and turned away just as quickly.

By the time they’d gotten the two tents up and a fire going, the sun was touching the hilltops in the distance, its light like dripping honey. The hills were dark, thrown into sharp contrast against the fading light, as though someone had cut shapes out of the world. It was always in moments like these that Francis felt it most clearly, the longing for the next day’s travel that would bring him closer to whatever was on the horizon.

Fitzjames touched Francis’s arm gently, startling Francis out of his contemplation. “Come. Let’s eat.”

Francis tore his eyes away from the mountains just in time to watch Fitzjames cast his hair over his shoulder, the careful affection of carelessness a needle to Francis’s heart. “God, I’m tired,” Fitzjames declared, and Francis wanted to tell him to keep it to himself. He wanted to tell him to rest. He said nothing.

They ate in silence, the only sound the howling of coyotes in the distance. Francis chewed, and thought, and kept turning over a question in his head as though the feeling of the words in his mouth might tell him how it would be received.

“What happened with you and Hickey?”

The look in Fitzjames’s eyes told him how the question had been taken, and he raised his hands. “I mean—why was Franklin so adamant you were to blame?”

Fitzjames’s hands skimmed over the blanket as though hoping to catch something that might occupy them. He happened upon a loose thread. Francis watched him twirl it around his finger.

“What’s there to tell? I met him on the road back from Annestown, when I was heading to Day Break for the roundup. We travelled together. He was looking for work, and I suggested he call on Franklin when we reached Day Break. He seemed pleasant enough.”

There was anger in Fitzjames’s words, but Francis couldn’t decide if it was anger at himself or at the perceived mistreatment by Franklin.

“Why did you stay?”

A brief, mirthless smile passed Fitzjames’s face. “Running away only would have confirmed my guilt in Franklin’s eyes. And I am not guilty of anything.”

Francis shook his head. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re too proud, James?”

“Perhaps.” Fitzjames’s eyes suddenly found Francis’s. “Perhaps it was my pride that kept me at Day Break. Or perhaps I should have found some self-respect sooner.”

* * *

The next day was spent looking for tracks on the trail.

Blanky had told Francis that the missionaries that came through the desert believed the paths to be thousands of years old, made by the natives. Francis had trouble picturing anyone coming this way willingly unless they were very desperate.

It was hard to pick out tracks in the ever-shifting sand. Promising signs always tapered out a few hundred yards into the following, and so there was nothing for them to do but keep on the trail. Follow the devil. If Hickey knew what was good for him, he’d stick to the well-travelled route.

Francis could feel Fitzjames’s eyes on him every time he called a halt, sitting tall and proud in Erebus’s saddle. To think how that image had thrilled Francis once upon a time. He did his best not to dwell on it as he crouched over the tracks: coyotes, two or three days old, pursuing a bighorn by the looks of it.

With a groan, he got back up, swung his leg over Terror. Fitzjames was still watching him, hands folded over his saddle horn.

“What are you looking for?”

There was curiosity on his face—none of the affectation that Francis knew was designed to get a rise out of him. He dusted off his hands, then found he was suddenly too aware of them without his duster pockets to shove them into.

“We can be reasonably sure that Hickey came this way, but in case he loops back around or deviates from the trail I’d like to have a spoor that I can follow.” Francis pointed to the coyote tracks. “These coyotes know the trick. They’re following a herd of bighorn sheep.”

Fitzjames peered at the tracks from his horse. “You can tell all that from a few prints in the sand?”

“Yes,” Francis said—wished there was something else he could tack on, some wisdom that was safe to pass on rather than the river rapids of their relationship. His mind blanked. “Shall we press on?”

“Let’s,” Fitzjames said.

* * *

The third night, they settled by a small stream—little more than a trickle, really, winding its determined and doomed way through the craggy landscape. Francis filled up his canteen. The water tasted like iron.

He took first watch, like every night. He couldn’t sleep without it. It was like the landscape needed to burn itself into his eyes first, every rock and plant and star, before he felt secure. Fitzjames didn’t seem to mind, and he was happily snoring away in his bedroll before long. Francis was glad his figure was mostly obscured by the canvas. Fitzjames asleep brought back memories he’d shut away, for his own sanity as much as Fitzjames’s.

He woke the man when the moon had passed its midpoint in the night sky, with a hand to his shoulder. If he focussed on the cotton of Fitzjames’s shirt, stained with sweat from their days on the road, he could avoid the soft curl of Fitzjames’s mouth, the place where his dimples were smoothed out by sleep. Fitzjames stirred. Francis, against his better judgement, watched the worry lines reappear on his face.

“Quiet night?” Fitzjames rubbed his eyes, stretched out his limbs. It revealed a strip of skin just above his hip. Francis fled to the safety of his bedroll.

He always fell asleep quickly on the trail, a gift honed by many years of making do, but he slept lightly. In the early hours of the morning, just before the sky began to lighten, he was woken by a howl.

Francis sat up with a start. Fitzjames was sitting by the fire. It had burned down to a few smouldering embers: a warm, low glow. Fitzjames was moving the last bits of the logs about with a stick, legs drawn up to his chest so that he could rest his chin on them. A faint breeze stirred the embers, and it was that breeze that must have carried their scent.

The howl came again, from a ridge behind where Fitzjames was sitting. Francis was on his feet within seconds.

Beyond what little light the fire gave, the darkness grew deeper. Francis blinked angrily, wishing he could will away the spots in his vision with nothing but the singing of sharp awareness in his blood. Fitzjames looked up, opened his mouth, surely to ask what was wrong. Francis silenced him with a quick gesture.

“Wolf,” he mouthed.

Fitzjames scrambled to his feet. “How can I help?” His words were a quiet whisper. The lines of his face deepened in the ever-shifting firelight.

Francis seized one of the logs. He thrust it into the embers of the fire until it caught, making a passable torch. He pressed it into Fitzjames’s hand, only noted briefly the point of contact where Fitzjames’s fingers brushed against his own. “Don’t waste bullets,” he hissed.

He had to crawl an agonising five feet away from the fire to his pack, conscious of the slightest shift in sound around their camp. Was that a rustle to his right? Was the shining thing out in the darkness a pair of eyes, trained on him? Blasted thing must be damn near starving to come after Fitzjames and him. Francis drew the Krag from its sheath. There were shells in the chamber, but he still checked, then slammed the bolt back in place, drawing himself to his feet.

It was hard to make out anything in the darkness. Francis kept his back to the fire, praying for his eyes to adjust to the darkness beyond the circle of light. He raised his rifle, hoping to pinpoint something through the sight.

“Do you see it?” Fitzjames whispered.

Francis breathed out. The sight held steady, but there was nothing for him to shoot. “Can’t get a clear look.”

A howl to his right. Francis whirled around, fired at the first sight of a deeper darkness against the night sky, the shot ringing in his ears—and missed. If the wolf had been there at all, it slunk away even as Francis engaged the bolt and lined up another shell in the chamber. Too late.

Fitzjames was holding the log in both hands, peering at the same darkness that Francis was cursing. He looked vulnerable in nothing but his long johns: Francis admired his long-limbed grace, but it also made him seem like a fragile thing, prone to breaking. Fitzjames wouldn’t take kindly to such thoughts from Francis, surely.

Francis drew up the rifle again. Taking a careful step forward, he signalled for Fitzjames to stay back. He kept his eyes away from the light of the fire and braced himself for the bastard of a wolf to come flying at him out of the left field. His fingers felt numb in the night air, the metal of the barrel cold against his skin. The crackling of the fire was too loud. In the pale moonlight, every rock was one false flick of light away from being a wolf.

A metallic sound drew Francis out of his careful contemplation. He would recognise the sound of a bullet sliding into the chamber of a Trapdoor Springfield anywhere. Before he could turn around and warn the man, Fitzjames had slid the chamber closed, raised the rifle—and fired.

The sound was deafening. Smoke rose from the barrel, but Fitzjames had not moved from his position, his feet braced securely against the dusty ground. He lowered the rifle slowly, engaged the bolt and slipped in another round without looking.

Francis tamped down on the urge to yell at him. Reckless, stupid, when Francis had told him to stay down—but the howling had disappeared, and Fitzjames had not lowered his gun, filled with a concentration Francis had not expected from him. His mouth went dry at the sight.

Only after several minutes did Fitzjames slowly relinquish his stance. He turned around to Francis, and in the low light of the fire Francis recognised a joyful, satisfied grin. “Haven’t done that in a while.”

Francis wanted to wrench the Springfield from his hands. Wipe the smile off his face and help him remember that this wasn’t a pleasant hunting trip.

“I’m going back to sleep,” he announced.

* * *

Francis woke early despite the night’s interruptions. Fitzjames was already making coffee by a freshly stoked fire, the aroma pleasant in the fragrant desert air. He had put a shirt back on but rolled up the sleeves—Francis allowed himself a minute of weakness in which he watched the flexing and shifting of muscles in these arms as Fitzjames worked around the fire. Calm hands. Strong arms. The kinds that held steady against the kickback of a rifle.

After breakfast, Francis walked a perimeter as Fitzjames packed up their things. Dead reckoning put the spot where the wolf must have been shot at about one hundred forty feet due east. The ground was marked by a range of prints—it had gotten even closer than Francis had figured last night.

He found the cadaver not one hundred and thirty feet out, staining the dust by a saguaro. Francis knelt down.

At point five inches on the shells, with a load of seventy grains of black powder, the Trapdoor wasn’t known for being a surgeon’s instrument. It wasn’t a hunting rifle for a reason, that reason being that it had a tendency to _pulverise_ —anything from a practise target to human bones.

The head of the wolf had been blown clean off. Francis surmised, after a little digging around in what was left of its skull, that Fitzjames must have hit it near dead on between the eyes, no small feat even on an animal this size. Something told Francis it wasn’t a lucky shot.

He returned to camp eventually, after washing his hands in the small stream. Fitzjames was whistling a tune Francis didn’t recognise. He stopped when he heard Francis approach. Francis’s eyes fell to his arms again.

“Ready to head out?” Fitzjames looked over his shoulder—he’d tied his hair back today. Francis nodded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to avoid the description of the dead wolf, stop at: "The ground was marked by a range of prints—it had gotten even closer than Francis had figured last night." You can keep reading from: "He returned to camp eventually..."
> 
> This week's song is [If It Hadn't Been for Love](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YSzlV6VNqI4) by the Steeldrivers.


	9. Time Only Adds to the Flame

The heat became unbearable, and then it moved past the point of being unbearable into a fact that permeated every aspect of their existence. Under the cloudless sky, the rays of the sun sought to peel back the defences of their very skin. The air was so thick they could taste it on their tongues when they breathed, hot sand and fragrant shrubs.

Whenever Francis refilled his waterskin from their provisions, he found himself going through the math in his mind—four days’ worth of water left, then three and a half, then three. The horses sweated and suffered as much as they did, if not more so, for they bore the brunt of the weight: their provisions, and the two riders they had to carry through the desert. Francis’s skin, where it wasn’t covered by his cotton shirt, turned red and blistered.

And still they pushed on. The days were crackling heat, and then the nights saw cutting winds that had them shivering by the fire, shifting closer together despite themselves.

They found nothing by way of tracks—the incessant winds moved the sands so that every footprint was erased not ten minutes after its conception. A man might walk in circles in this country, Francis thought, and not even realise. He wondered how Blanky and Ross had done it. Everything looked the same to him—bright, and utterly alien.

Francis wasn’t deterred by the lack of tracks. He knew if Hickey had any common sense, he’d have to stop for water soon, and from there on Francis would be able to pick up his trail. Francis knew the only place in this godforsaken land where a man might find water.

No, he wasn’t worried about finding Hickey’s trail. Not yet. Something else was keeping him up at night, during the precious hours he had to rest.

He couldn’t stop looking at Fitzjames. It must’ve started the morning he found the dead wolf—Francis had been aware of Fitzjames before, his presence first a nuisance, then begrudgingly accepted, but now he was more aware than ever of just how much had changed between them. Francis had taken Fitzjames for granted when he’d had him. Now, spending more time with him than ever before, there was nothing of their old familiarity, and Francis missed it. No, he _craved_ it.

He wanted to touch Fitzjames.

Erebus trotted leisurely alongside Terror, the only sounds from her the occasional protestation at the heat. Fitzjames atop her, his skin gold-brown, had the appearance of a statue: the gleaming beauty, the sacrosanct air. Francis missed the taste of him.

They could have had companionship. Fitzjames was a capable partner, riding as well as Francis, if not better. He knew his way around life on the trail. More than that, he was apparently a crack shot. When Francis refused him last September, had he really known the man he had spurned? Or was the Fitzjames he thought he knew back then just one of many—not a lie, but not the whole truth, either?

Had Francis listened to Fitzjames then, their journey could have been a very different one—but then, Francis hadn’t been the man he was now last September.

There was nothing to do but ride on.

* * *

The seventh day led them into the foothills of the mountains.

The hills were the rich brown of granite rock, shining against the unbroken blue sky and the dry shrubs. It seemed blasphemous to Francis that anything green could grow under such hostile conditions, and yet the bur sage and creosote bushes littered the valley floor all the same. Their horses’ steps thudded dully against the sandy ground.

The ascent went slow for the first half of the day. After a short break for lunch—there was no point in lingering, for there was no reprieve from the sun either way—they took to leading their horses up the narrow path. Francis went ahead, his eyes fixed on the ground and one ear turned towards Fitzjames, who had to soothe Erebus in low tones. Francis couldn’t make out the words, but the rumble of James’s baritone was an itch on his mind, nevertheless.

They were coming up on the pools now. The granite of the path betrayed no tracks to speak of, but the closer they came, the surer Francis was that they would find a sign of Hickey up there—fates were made here. People died finding the pools empty. It was a place of significance, and had been for thousands of years.

By Francis’s estimate, they had managed a little over half of the ascent when darkness fell. Their camp on the pass was the most uncomfortable yet—the unyielding rock did not lend itself to stretching out even the smallest bit, and their fire would hardly stay lit. Fitzjames shivered miserably in his sleep, even after Francis covered him with his own blanket and the spare one he’d bought back in Tuckerrock.

Fitzjames handed the blankets back with a low _thank you_ after Francis woke him for the watch. He appeared subdued, deep in thought, but there was a spark in his eyes when their fingers brushed handing over the blankets. Francis, for his own sanity, decided not to dwell on it.

* * *

They came upon the first pool suddenly the next day, like a blue chasm splitting the rock before them. Francis raised his hand and called a halt.

They refilled their waterskins. The horses drank greedily, snorting and whinnying in something that sounded strangely like elation. Francis left them to it while he went to assess the position of the sun in the sky and the ground around the pool.

“I think we should press on to the second pool,” he told Fitzjames, “Someone was here, but I can’t tell how long ago. This might be our best chance to gain on Hickey.”

Fitzjames nodded grimly. “Onwards, then.”

They let the horses rest a short while longer—the ascent was gruelling enough for them—but before the sun could sink too low, they were moving up the pass, Francis in front and Fitzjames in back. Already it seemed to Francis like they had spent a lifetime in this strange understanding where words weren’t needed and yet everything that needed to be said was said. The single-minded purpose of a pursuit was a blessing.

The second pool was larger than the first and offered itself more readily to a campsite. In the low afternoon light, it shone in a deep dark blue. Francis told Fitzjames to stay back while he took a lap of the site, noting the darkened spot where somebody had lit a fire in a sheltered alcove, the brush that had been trampled underfoot of a horse.

“Hickey was here alright,” Francis said, “A day or two ago, I’d say, with how well-preserved the tracks are.”

“Should we press on?” Fitzjames asked.

Francis shook his head and pointed to the sun. “It’s too late. We’d break a leg.”

“The horses would, more likely.”

Fitzjames was already removing Erebus’s saddle, sneaking her a treat underhand. Francis told himself it was unbecoming to be jealous of a horse.

“We should have brought mules,” Francis sighed when Terror continued to nip at him as he tried to remove his saddle. The appaloosa wasn’t happy with what was being asked of him, and he was determined to let Francis know.

Something gleamed in Fitzjames’s eyes when Francis looked over at him. “We certainly have someone with the temper of one.”

Francis could hardly believe the grin on Fitzjames’s face. He wondered if it was the first time Fitzjames had smiled at Francis since—he couldn’t even remember. He gave in to the impulse to smile back, a tentative, reaching thing.

With Terror unsaddled and brushed, he considered the site again. Setting up tents would be impractical, but they were sheltered from the wind by the high walls on either side.

“I’m going to wash up,” he announced. Sweat had been pouring down his back all day and he felt sticky with it. He wanted nothing more than a bath and a good night’s sleep, and he was likely to find at least one of the two here.

He stripped quickly. The water was lukewarm—the pools collected rainwater, there was no ice melt to be found in these mountains. He kept his head down as he squatted by the water. There was no reason to dally, even if Fitzjames had seen him undressed before. He sighed quietly at the relief of water on his skin.

From across the pool came a small splash.

Francis looked up before he could think better of it. Fitzjames had stripped as well—his lithe figure was familiar to Francis, but there was something alluring about the contrast between his sun-browned skin and his pale torso that had been sheltered from the sun. Francis realised he was staring, and quickly lowered his head. As long as he focussed on cleaning himself, he could ignore the sounds of splashing water, the wet slap of Fitzjames’s hand where it hit his skin to scrub him clean. Francis made the mistake of looking up again.

Fitzjames was watching him.

Francis was pinned by his eyes. In one fluid motion, Fitzjames rose from where he had crouched by the water. The long lines of his body unfolded before Francis’s eyes, still mouth-wateringly beautiful and gleaming in the sunlight with a hundred droplets of water. Francis swallowed as Fitzjames turned, revealing yet _more_ of his body that Francis didn’t want to see, not anymore. Francis was already quietly mourning his glimpse of Fitzjames when the man took two steps towards his pack, but then Fitzjames simply laid down on the warm stone, stretched out and bare in all his glory. Francis swallowed again.

The urge to go to him was overwhelming. It was in every fibre of Francis’s body—the very fact of his physical existence calling out to Fitzjames. He knew he shouldn’t.

He knew he shouldn’t, but there was what he knew and then there was what his body was telling him. Francis wasn’t stupid. He could read an offer as well as any man. He might not get another chance like this.

He abandoned his crouch by the pool and rose—looking, no doubt, significantly less elegant than Fitzjames. He didn’t have that statuesque air about him. The rock was warm under his feet as he made his way around the pool, over to Fitzjames, his prick swelling with anticipation between his legs. Oh, it had been too long.

Fitzjames turned his head at the sound of Francis’s steps. He squinted against the sunlight, an enigmatic smile playing around his lips. “Like this, the sun is quite bearable.”

“You’ll burn,” Francis said, mouth dry. He knelt next to Fitzjames, with all the devotion of a believer.

“Suppose I’ll just have to take that risk,” Fitzjames said. He propped himself up on his elbows, his face just inches from Francis’s.

Francis kissed him. Fitzjames’s lips were wet from the water he’d splashed on his face. He tasted faintly of salt, the remnants of sweat on his skin. Francis probed deeper without much thought, and Fitzjames’s mouth opened to him easily. Francis could disappear in that mouth and never return, he knew with unerring certainty, as Fitzjames found his tongue and sucked it into his mouth. He’d never had Fitzjames like this, open, in sunlight—always the shade of his cabin, the curtains drawn. This here was something else. Something new.

There was nothing hiding them from each other. When Francis swung a leg over Fitzjames’s prone body to straddle him, every contact was skin-on-skin, pure and searing. He sank a hand into Fitzjames’s hair, tilted his head up and fitted their mouths together again.

Under him, Fitzjames shifted. Francis could only spare the fact a passing thought—the movement of Fitzjames’s body brought their pricks together and Francis found himself hardening further. Then—a splash.

Francis broke the kiss, sputtering. Fitzjames dipped his hand into the pool again and splashed another round of droplets onto Francis. The grin on his face was wide, bright like the sun.

Francis pinned Fitzjames to the ground with his body—Fitzjames always reacted enthusiastically to Francis’s weight atop him, writhing and grinding himself against Francis—and pinned Fitzjames’s offending hand above his head. Fitzjames’s eyes went dark, pupils blown wide. “Francis,” he said, his voice rasping and dry.

If things were still the way they used to be between them, Francis might have taken Fitzjames like this: hands pinned above his head, squirming under Francis and begging him for his release. There was safety in that. The simple joy on Fitzjames’s face—the way he had stretched himself out on the rock, uncomplicated and profligate—demanded something else.

Francis released Fitzjames’s wrist, cradled the side of his face and kissed him deeply. Fitzjames hummed, surprised, his hands coming up to Francis’s sides as though seeking reassurance. His body was warm under Francis, but unlike the heat of the desert, this was a pleasant warmth—the warmth of something alive and beautiful. Francis pulled himself loose from Fitzjames’s mouth; made his way down Fitzjames’s neck by way of kisses, an explorer with his lips. Fitzjames was panting.

“I’ve missed this,” Fitzjames said. “God, Francis I’ve missed this.”

Francis agreed but found the sentiment too difficult for words. He endeavoured to show Fitzjames instead.

There was nothing between them but the stickiness of their wet bodies, water mingling with sweat as the sun dried their skin. Francis gorged himself on the taste of Fitzjames’s body, the way every carefully placed kiss had Fitzjames trembling with anticipation he could not or did not want to conceal. The weeks on the road had hardened his muscles and given his body the well-built leanness of an athlete. Francis wanted to trace the lines of his body with charcoal on the richest paper he could find. He wanted to immortalise Fitzjames, to preserve him like he was—the picture of virility and uncomplicated masculinity, no affectations or vanity.

Francis traced the shape of Fitzjames’s thighs with his hands, feeling the shifting of sinews beneath the skin. His eyes were stuck on Fitzjames’s prick, hard and resting in its nest of curls. His hand would have reached out on its own accord, but he had other plans.

“Turn around.”

He nudged Fitzjames until the man, half dazed with pleasure, focussed on Francis’s face and complied. He arranged himself on his knees, his torso falling forward, face hidden under his curls.

“What are you—we don’t have—”

Francis soothed a hand over his back, and Fitzjames fell quiet. Francis’s hands returned to Fitzjames’s arse, kneading it as Francis shuffled down. With a firm grip on both cheeks, he parted them. A shudder went through Fitzjames at the sensation of Francis’s breath over his hole.

“Oh,” he said, perhaps hoping to sound casually interested, but it came out high-pitched and desperate. Francis felt a satisfied spark flicker through his heart. He had not un-learned the way of pleasing Fitzjames, then.

At the first tentative swipe of Francis’s tongue, Fitzjames’s entire body trembled. Only by noting the purple indentations of teeth on the meat of Fitzjames’s hand later would Francis know that Fitzjames had been biting down on his hand to keep from screaming for most of the proceedings. He was easily undone, it seemed, by gentleness from Francis, even more so than by their harsher tumblings.

Francis let the thrumming of Fitzjames’s body be his guide. At the probing motions of his tongue, a strangled sound escaped Fitzjames’s throat, and Francis kept up until he could push his tongue inside Fitzjames.

“ _Damn you_ ,” Fitzjames hissed, voice hoarse with the effort of keeping quiet. Francis was not yet inclined to grant him reprieve, not when Fitzjames was so clearly affected. He licked and sucked and probed, mouth and chin wet with his efforts, until Fitzjames was begging with it.

“Don’t make me wait anymore, please, I’ve waited so long—”

Francis drew back dazedly, surprised to discover that his and Fitzjames’s bodies were indeed still separate entities. He still felt as though he could sense the echo of Fitzjames’s pleasure in his own. He fitted himself over Fitzjames’s back, cradling his shaking body close. “Let me see you, then,” he rasped. He sounded pathetic and didn’t care one whit.

Fitzjames complied hastily, shifting under Francis until he was lying on his back. His cheeks were red, a wet trail down one cheek betraying something Francis had no business considering. Francis traced the line of it down Fitzjames’s cheek; then a finger down his chest. “You’re beautiful. Like a statue.”

Fitzjames seized his hand, Francis’s palm splayed flat against his chest. His eyes met Francis’s with a vicious intensity. “I’m real, Francis.”

Francis saw it, then—Fitzjames, not the idea he had of him in his head but _Fitzjames_ , a man who breathed and ate and laughed and liked, _loved_ Francis enough to be out here with him. His mouth fell open, forming the shape of words he dared not give breath.

“You are,” he muttered.

“Love me, Francis,” Fitzjames demanded with urgency. Francis was helpless to that command.

He brought them together in his fist, as though he could hold fast to the accord they had reached by cradling them closely together. Their messy, desperate union seemed at once undignified and also the logical culmination of events: here was Fitzjames, who could follow Francis anywhere and who would love him anywhere. A dangerous line of thought.

Fitzjames seemed utterly helpless with it, eyes closed, and head thrown back in rapture as Francis frigged them both. His mouth had fallen open and he breathed out his pleasure in a staccato of moans. His hand—a clumsy, seeking thing—joined Francis’s, and their fingers linked together over their pricks seemed to seal something. Francis jerked forward, taken aback by the sensation of Fitzjames’s body under him, Fitzjames’s strong hand _around_ him. His movements became frantic, aided by Fitzjames’s muttered encouragements. Fitzjames bit the shell of his ear, licked over it to ease the sting or reinforce his claim, Francis did not know. He was mad with desire for this man, driving his prick into the combined circle of their fists and against Fitzjames’s hardness over and over, feeling his muscles tighten and then release all of a sudden, as Francis spent himself over Fitzjames’s chest.

Fitzjames’s eyes flew open, and he painted such a pretty picture, naked, pupils blown wide, covered in Franics’s spend, that Francis had to kiss him. Fitzjames grunted as he spent, going first rigid with desire and then pliant with it, until Francis felt he was cradling something soft and vulnerable in his arms.

Their hands remained intertwined even as they separated, their bodies tender things in the aftermath of their pleasure. Francis feared their separation even as he saw its necessity and tried to prolong it, keeping Fitzjames next to him on the warm stone. His thumb traced over the place where Fitzjames had bitten his hand.

* * *

The water glittered in the firelight, a dark pool of mirror images that did nothing but distort what they showed. It could have been beautiful but for the bugs—the beasts flitted around their campsite incessantly, barely deterred by the smoke that their fire gave off. At least the steep walls of the mountains sheltered them from the worst of the winds. The rock reflected the firelight in deep red hues that painted Fitzjames’s skin in the warmest colours as he got a pot of coffee going, tinkering away, lost in his own thoughts.

Francis found he couldn’t look at him for too long. He focussed on the fire, the way it crackled when he poked at the logs with a stick. Every so often, it would send a shower of sparks flying up into the air, bright and vibrant against the dark blue sky.

“I will ask her to marry me again.”

It was a painful thing, this companionship. It was leading Francis to believe in futures a man of his age and standing should have no business imagining: that he might not have to choose between the road he so loved and the love he so craved. That there was someone who could follow him wherever he went, whose world extended past the narrowly defined realm of barbed wire fences. Every day with Fitzjames took Francis farther from the dreams he’d once harboured—the drawing rooms and four-poster beds, the elaborate meals and numerous children suddenly too narrow for his heart.

He had to be clear about it now. It would only hurt them both going forward if he wasn’t clear about it.

James stilled in his movements, knuckles white where he was clutching the pot. His stare went blankly ahead. “Why,” he said. Not a question. Simply an expression of incredulity.

“Come now, James.”

Francis wished he had never brought it up; wanted it over with already. He couldn’t look at Fitzjames without imagining their parting of ways at the end of this, which made him all the more determined. Fitzjames, at heart, was a creature of guilty pleasures. He would never muster the strength to deny himself an indulgence. That left only Francis, and a war against his heart he was quickly losing.

“This… isn’t normal. It’s not done. Or maybe it’s done, but it’s not… life. A life is a wife, and a home, and children who grow up to be ungrateful bastards.”

The muscles of Fitzjames’s cheeks were working. In the firelight, his face became an intricate study of light and shadow. He still hadn’t looked at Francis. Slowly, he set down the coffee pot.

“Haven’t I been a good wife to you, Francis?” His eyes snapped up, suddenly, pinning Francis with their butterfly-needle intensity. “Haven’t I let you fuck me whichever way you please? Was it not good? Did you not _enjoy_ yourself—”

“Enough,” Francis hissed. Fitzjames and his obscenities. He knew how Francis ached to hear them, what it did to him.

“Of course, sir,” Fitzjames spat, a mockery of deference, “Pardon me, sir. Wouldn’t want to speak out of turn, sir.”

_“How dare you—”_ Francis sprang up, poised against a blow Fitzjames needn’t deliver with fists. His words cut deeper than that.

Fitzjames sneered at him. “Do you even realise what I’ve done for you?”

“Enlighten me.”

“All the years I spent at Day Break. I could have had a future, if I’d gone east. Made a name for myself, instead of relying on Franklin whichever way I went. I stayed there _for you_.”

He rose to his feet as well, punctuated his last words with a stab to Francis’s chest. Francis staggered back.

“I waited for you like you waited for the weather to turn every spring. And I stayed because every couple of months, there was a chance you might drop in and _look at me_.” Fitzjames breathed out a measured pause, two beats in a staccato of words. “You are wilfully blind, Francis. And you will remain a miserable man until you die.”

“I never meant—”

How long had Fitzjames been carrying this? What hopes had Francis nourished in him all these years?

“James, how did you think this would end?”

“I didn’t,” Fitzjames said. The defeat in his voice was at odds with the gleam in his eyes. Francis knew it well—the disdain, the gaze that sought and found Francis wanting.

“Then you’re a bigger fool than even I.”

“Apparently,” James spat, already turning away. He was beautiful even in anger, the sharp lines of his face like ridges of ice, ready to cut. Francis felt the loss like a severing, then—the passing of something he shouldn’t have let slip through his hands. No matter. It had to be done.

He retreated to his canvas tent. Wrapped up and shivering in his bedroll, nothing of the limb-loosening warmth of their afternoon remained: any comfort found in James’s embrace could only be temporary. James’s tent shielded him from Francis’s view, the fire blocking out any shadows he might have made out. He called for James when it was time to change the watch and didn’t wait to see him emerge.

The stars were incredibly bright; a sky of freckled light. Francis didn’t fall asleep for a long time, which was not his habit. He woke early, and it was against the remnants of this star-bright sky that he saw the smoke curl upwards, coming from the direction of the third pool.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This week we're listening to Patsy Cline's [I Fall to Pieces](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HG-8uZg2uV0).


	10. Something Tells Me You Know Why I Lie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are approaching the canon-typical loss of extremities. See the end of the chapter for details.

Hickey was gone by the time they reached the third pool.

The ascent had been tense, both for the skill required in the climbing and the silence between Francis and Fitzjames. Francis hadn’t known it was possible to extend a hand to a man to help him up a steep incline, and for that man to look through him as though he wasn’t even there.

He had done it. He’d severed himself so completely from Fitzjames that there wouldn’t be a coming back, not ever. Francis didn’t know if it was guilt or relief that he felt—he’d been in a similar mood after Sophia rejected his proposal, and still associated it with the safety of knowing he’d reached the full depth of disappointing someone.

He poked around the campsite. They were almost at the peak of the pass now, and Francis had a good view of the path they had just climbed. A thought struck him, and he clambered up some rocks to verify it—indeed, from up here he could just barely see the second pool, glimmering in the midday sun.

“He’s been watching us,” Francis announced. “He knows we’re after him.”

They moved on. The last bit of the ascent was the worst part yet, full of treacherous rocks that rolled away underfoot and steep inclines that were barely manageable for the horses. Francis felt a profound sense of relief when they crested the last ridge and the plain opened up before and three thousand feet below them, spread out like a map for their perusal. He extended a hand to Fitzjames to pull him up the last step. Then they stood and surveyed. Francis dug a pair of binoculars out of his pack.

From up here, the path they were following through the desert was plainly visible. Francis found himself briefly amazed by the tenacity of humans that had braved the hostile conditions of the desert time and time again, until the trail of their steps had permanently marked the landscape. With his binoculars Francis found the place where the path emerged from the mountain, then followed it southward. No sign of a rider yet. The plain was empty of people.

“If he’s following the trail, he’ll be heading there.” Francis extended a hand. In the shimmering distance, a town was just barely visible—ramshackle wooden huts and a few whitewashed stone buildings. “Loquillas. From there it isn’t another day’s ride to Mexico.”

He handed Fitzjames the binoculars so the man could see for himself. Fitzjames took them without looking at Francis.

“Good,” he said as he handed back the binoculars. “I’m about ready to put this whole affair behind me.”

* * *

They smelled Loquillas before they saw it.

A steady breeze had been blowing the stench of horses and poor sanitation towards them all morning. When the town came into view, it confirmed all of Francis’s suspicions about it—a small, backwater place of a town, full of Spanish-speaking peasants and English-speaking prospectors who hoped against all hope that there might be gold just over the next ridge of hills. A group of vaqueros had made camp on the outskirts of town, waiting to move their herd further south, and they nodded to Fitzjames and Francis like they were recognising men of their trade. Hickey would stick out like a sore thumb here.

People watched them as they rode into town. After twelve days in the desert, even this desolate town seemed busy to Francis. Neither he nor Fitzjames looked like upstanding travellers after their twelve days, but there was something else in the eyes of the first old man they passed—something narrowed and suspicious. Francis felt for his gun.

“Something’s not right,” he muttered.

Fitzjames huffed a response. “You’re paranoid.”

They tied their horses up by the saloon—Francis heard the faint murmur of conversation from inside, but the room was too dark for him to make out faces. The sense of unease came over him again, stronger this time. He was torn—taking Fitzjames for backup would be the smart play, but it would also mean that half his attention was on the man’s icy presence by his side.

“Take the stables,” he told Fitzjames, “See if any traveller’s come through and had their horse looked at.”

Fitzjames looked at him, and Francis knew he was seeing through to the cowardice at the core of him. Then, no doubt glad to be rid of Francis, he went without another word. Francis watched him stalk down the dusty road, a tall shadow between ramshackle houses, Erebus by his side.

He tore his eyes away. There was a room full of locals to frighten.

He squinted as he pushed open the doors to the saloon. The shutters had been drawn to keep out the heat, and only one or two lamps were flickering in the corner. Francis could make out two men with unwashed faces nursing pale beers, the foam long since dissipated. He blinked and stepped up to the bar.

The barkeep was a Mexican by the looks of him, but his English was as crisp as any Francis had ever heard out here. “Whatever trouble you’re looking for, sir, you won’t find it here.”

“Who says I’m looking for trouble?”

The eyes of the man flickered over to a corner table. Francis thanked him with a nod. “Whiskey, then,” he said.

The barkeeper poured him two fingers, and Francis knocked it back. It had a complicated taste, clear and old, burning the focus into Francis like a searing brand. His feet fell heavy as he made his way over to the corner table.

There was only one man at the table—short, from what Francis could tell, an almost comically large hat obscuring his face. His clothes were dusty, his arms the aggressive red-brown of white skin that had been burned by the sun too much. Francis kept a hand on his revolver.

The man raised his head. Francis stopped.

“Emmanuel?”

“Mr Crozier. What an unexpected pleasure!”

He’d washed his face, trimmed his beard and combed his hair from what Francis could see. Still, he bore the marks of a forced twelve-day march through the desert, the kind of trek a man would only make if he was being pursued.

The pieces fell, but they fell too slowly.

Emmanuel drew a gun on him.

“Hickey,” Francis said, and Emmanuel’s— _Hickey’s_ —grin widened.

“Finally.”

Francis thought quick. This wasn’t a fight he’d win with a gun, not with Hickey’s gun already trained on him. He could try to keep him talking until Fitzjames got here, but Hickey had to know at this point that Francis was after him and wouldn’t fall for a cheap trick like Francis stalling for time. Perhaps if he could get close enough to wrest the gun from him—

“I know you’re trying to think your way out of this. I have to say, I’m disappointed. The great Francis Crozier, a legend among bounty hunters, and yet I’ve escaped you twice.” He looked infuriatingly pleased. “And I’m about to do it a third time.”

Francis’s mistake was thinking he had at least a little more time than he did. While his mind was still racing through the possibilities, he registered the cocking of Hickey’s gun. He reached for his own—and then couldn’t feel his hand anymore.

At the sound of the revolver firing, the other patrons scrambled for the exits. Francis saw the bartender duck behind the wood of the bar—it might even be thick enough to stop a bullet, he thought, though he wasn’t sure why his mind focussed on that exactly. Hickey was already making for the double doors and the blazing sunlight behind them. Then Francis’s mind registered the throbbing pain in his right hand. He looked down and wished he hadn’t.

Two of his fingers were gone, blood dripping from the hole that the bullet had eaten into his hand. A good deal of bone must have been pulverized by the impact of the bullet; Francis couldn’t move anything. Blood kept welling from the open wound in lazy pulses.

He sprang into action sluggishly, as though observing a body that didn’t belong to him. He ripped off his neckerchief, then cursed when he realised he wouldn’t be able to tie a tourniquet with only one hand.

“You!” He pointed at the bartender, who had just raised his head above the bar again. “Get over here.”

The man looked ready to faint at the sight of Francis’s deformed hand. Francis himself was sure only an excess of adrenaline kept him upright. He instructed the barkeep and hissed when the neckerchief bit into his skin. He took a spare neckerchief from his pocket and wrapped it around the wound as best he could, cursing as the pain flared up at the barest touch. He couldn’t pass out now.

Stumbling, he got to his feet. The barkeep was protesting—Francis couldn’t mean to go out like this; what was he thinking, they should call for the doctor immediately—but Francis was already out the door.

Terror was gone.

He stared at the spot where he’d tied up the appaloosa for a dumbfounded moment, thinking perhaps he’d misremembered something. The horse had been here just some minutes ago and now—he cursed.

The bastard had taken his horse.

There was nothing but a cloud of dust slowly settling on the road where Hickey must’ve galloped away. Francis stared and fought the urge to start running as though there was a chance he could catch up with him. The bastard had taken his _horse_. He’d had that damned horse for over ten years.

“Francis!”

He whirled around. Fitzjames and his prissy standardbred were hurrying down the street. “The stablehand saw someone matching Hickey’s description just this morning—” Fitzjames stopped when he caught sight of Francis—no doubt he looked pale and shaken. “What happened to you?”

Francis pointed down the street with his uninjured hand. “He went that way. He took Terror.”

His eyes kept returning to the spot where he’d tied up the appaloosa. _Not Terror_ , his mind tried to convince him. He was a good horse. Francis felt like he might throw up, though that could also be the blood loss.

“Well,” Fitzjames said. Erebus was dancing under him. “Get on.”

“She’ll be too slow,” Francis said, up to his neck now in his despair. “Oh, damn the bastard—”

Fitzjames spurred Erebus on until she stood next to Francis. He held out his hand, a gleam in his eyes. He didn’t smile. “ _Get on_.”

Francis took the hand. It was harder, getting on a horse that already carried one rider, especially with his good hand injured, but he managed. His vision swam as he seated himself behind Fitzjames. Erebus seemed to near vibrate with barely contained energy.

And then Fitzjames spurred her on. “ _Hya!_ ”

She shot off down the road, quick as an arrow.

* * *

If Erebus could feel the weight of two men on her, she didn’t let it show. Francis had never seen a racehorse like her. He’d just had the wherewithal to wrap his arms around Fitzjames’s midsection, and found that now, he was holding on for dear life. His injured hand throbbed with a lazy and slow pulse that rose and fell with his heartbeat. He wondered idly how much time he had left.

Hickey’s tracks were easy enough to follow. The land was flat, the tracks fresh. He couldn’t hide.

Francis was too exhausted to even feel relieved—he just knew that once he got off this horse, he wouldn’t be getting back on. The pain in his hand flared up every time Erebus’s hooves hit the ground. Francis grit his teeth.

They didn’t speak. Their sole purpose now was catching up with Hickey.

The path they followed quickly became less distinguishable among the shrubs, but Erebus never lost her footing. The realisation that Francis had been doing both Fitzjames and his horse a disservice didn’t even come as a surprise anymore. He’d done them all wrong, and here he was, on Erebus’s back, slowly bleeding out as penance. What a fitting end.

An hour passed, another hour. The sun slowly sank lower. It would be getting dark before long. Francis kept his eyes on the tracks.

“We’re getting closer,” he said.

Fitzjames spurred Erebus on, but it was another hour before Hickey came into their sight. He must’ve spotted them at the same time they spotted him—he gave Terror the spurs. Fitzjames followed.

“Can you reach my saddlebags? I need the rope.”

Francis wanted to tell him that might break Hickey’s neck at their present speed but couldn’t bring himself to care. The bastard had shot off his _hand_ , for Christ’s sake.

“Let me—”

He locked his right arm tighter around Fitzjames. If he fell off now, it would be deadly or a near thing—though why he cared about the precise manner of his death at this stage, Francis couldn’t have said. His hand gave a painful throb, and he hissed. With his left, he fumbled for Fitzjames’s saddlebag and pulled out the rope. Fitzjames took it from him with unexpected deftness. Even with an additional passenger, he seemed utterly at home on Erebus, as though he and the horse were of one mind.

Fitzjames spurred her on again, the horse whinnying out a protest. Hickey’s figure was clearer now—he was urging Terror on with a desperate hand. Francis had an idea.

He grabbed Fitzjames tightly again, pushed two fingers into his mouth and whistled as loud as he could with as much breath as he still had left in his lungs. Fitzjames actually flinched—perhaps Francis should have warned the man—but it paid off. Terror slowed, attempting to turn.

Cursing, Hickey gave him the spurs again. Francis whistled once more, and Terror hesitated again. The distance between them shrunk further.

Fitzjames managed to fix the rope to his saddle horn somehow. He took the reins in one hand, raised the rope with the other. On the next whistle, just as Terror slowed, he released it.

Francis had expected Hickey to be pulled off his horse and hit his head on a stone as soon as the rope tightened around him. That would have been the most Francis could have managed. But Fitzjames had been wrangling cattle for Franklin for the better part of his life, and he knew exactly how much give the rope had in it. He fixed the rope around Hickey, brought Erebus to a skidding halt next to Terror, then jumped out of the saddle began pulling down Hickey before Hickey had a chance to free himself.

Francis tried to ease himself off Erebus but faltered when he reached for the saddle horn with his injured hand and pain shot through his arm, bright and acute. He fell more than he slid to the ground, but he managed to right himself and free his revolver with his left hand. It was shaking. He took aim at Hickey, who was already half hogtied, spitting curses and obscenities at Fitzjames. Black spots danced at the edge of Francis’s vision.

He waited until Fitzjames had finished tying up Hickey before stumbling over to a bush and emptying out the contents of his stomach. He couldn’t regain a sense of balance. From a distance, he heard a voice, calling: “Francis?”

He managed a nod before another bout of nausea hit him. “I’m fine,” he declared, wiping his mouth with his hand before remembering.

Fitzjames caught his hand. “Oh fuck,” he said. Francis felt inclined to agree, but then his view of Fitzjames’s face—flushed from the ride, his hair endearingly tousled—faded to black.

* * *

“I’m sorry, Francis, but this is going to hurt.”

Francis came to with a start, energy coursing through his body that had nowhere to go. His hand was a dull knot of pain. The light was fading fast. Fitzjames was kneeling over him.

“Here, bite down on this.”

Something was shoved into Francis’s mouth. Francis realised Fitzjames was holding the wood saw Francis kept for collecting firewood. He managed a muffled protest.

He blacked out quickly. A mercy, in the end.

* * *

Consciousness didn’t return to him for a while. The pain was all-encompassing, and so it was hard to tell what he dreamt and what was real. Sometimes he found himself transported back to a childhood bed, shivering through a fever. Then he was waiting for Blanky and Ross to emerge from the other side of the desert, in that stinking room with its shuttered windows that had become his own purgatory.

The sunlight shone through the tent canvas. It was bright, and filtered, and Francis thought he’d never seen light that looked this pure before. The dust motes that hung lazily in the rays of sunshine pulsed in time with the blood that was somehow still flowing through Francis’s body. His eyes slipped shut—

_He’s leaning against the corral at Day Break, the one that’s out back and not tucked against the stable like a skittish animal. The sun is beating down on him, but he has his hat drawn in his face and is smoking a cigarette. He’s pleased with this last job, and Franklin promised him something resembling steady employment: work on the farm in the off season, and contracts from his contacts when they come around. It’s a world better than his old band._

_Francis is watching a man in the corral, seated on a paint horse. He’s leading it in circles, talking steadily to the animal. Francis can’t make out the words, but he hears the rumble of his voice, a pleasing tone. He doesn’t yet know the people here, but the cowboy intrigues him. It takes the man another lap around the corral to notice Francis._

_He brings the paint around, a skilled hand leading the horse so as to make it seem effortless. Francis is quietly impressed._

_“What’s your name?” the man asks. Francis sees brown eyes, a crooked tooth that gives the man’s smile a rogue-ish quality._

_“Francis Crozier,” he says._

_The man leans down from the horse, extends his hand. “James Fitzjames.”_

_Francis takes the hand—_

He opened his eyes and saw Fitzjames sitting by the fire, feeding strips of linen into a bean can perched on a grate atop the fire. The fabric was light blue, and even in his fever-haze Francis recognised Fitzjames’s shirt, the one he’d worn in Annestown. _Boiling bandages_ , his mind supplied.

Worry lines creased Fitzjames’s forehead. His form was hunched over the fire, so that Francis could only see them when he lifted his head a little. Still, he tried. Something about the image of Fitzjames soothed him, even as the movement exhausted him. Francis wanted desperately to reach out, but couldn’t make his hand work, couldn’t—

_James Fitzjames is a cowboy, but Francis is sure he was born to race horses._

_“Come on, old man,” his voice bellows out over the open field, the grass dotted with flowers of every colour: purples and blues, deep reds and bright yellows. Fitzjames’s horse has carried him far ahead of Francis, who is giving Terror leave to run at his own speed. He’s not going to catch up with this devil._

_Fitzjames roped the horse not two weeks ago while out on the trail with Francis. Francis watched him break it in the corral, sceptic at first as the horse danced and shied away from Fitzjames, wild as anything Francis had ever seen. It looked ready to kick Fitzjames’s head in for fear of him. Francis wanted to call out a warning, barely stopped himself—and Fitzjames had just kept talking to the horse in low, soothing tones, until it let him climb atop._

_Fitzjames lopes back around eventually, rides to meet Francis with a broad smile on his face. Sweat glints on his skin when he shakes out his hair. “That was fun.”_

_Francis smiles but ducks his head before it can become too obvious. If Fitzjames notices—_

Francis sputtered around another spoonful of thick liquid being shoved into his mouth. Mashed beans. The consistency made him want to throw up—pulpy and full of chunks that it hurt to swallow around. He struggled against Fitzjames’s arm cradling him, tried to fend off the spoon come to force yet another mouthful down his throat—and stopped, at the sound of Fitzjames’s voice.

“Francis, _please_.”

He sounded utterly exhausted. Francis strained to lift his gaze, forcing clarity out of the fever-haze. Fitzjames eyes were shining with—

_The wound is taking a while to heal, and Franklin has put Francis up at the main house. He was stupid, shouldn’t have gone after the quarry alone when he knew he was outmatched. No matter. He’s here, and he’s still alive, and he’s waking every morning in a featherbed to servants telling him that breakfast is served._

_Today, he’s set his mind on perusing the library he spied the other day—a dark, dusty room filled to the ceiling with more books than Francis has ever seen in his life. He has precious little to read out on the trail, the odd penny dreadful being the exception._

_He heads there after breakfast, not sure what he’s hoping to find. It certainly isn’t Sophia. Sophia who asks him if he’s read much, and who directs him to her favourites when he tells her sheepishly that he hasn’t._

_“Oh, you_ must _try Poe! Wonderfully morbid.” She winks at him, and Francis feels utterly overwhelmed. He’s never met a woman like her. He’s never met anyone like her. As he sits down next to her—_

Francis woke to Fitzjames dragging him out of the tent. He found himself briefly surprised at the strength Fitzjames was commanding, before the shock of an open palm to his cheek wrested him fully to consciousness. Fitzjames knelt before him, eyes dark with intent. He was speaking, but the words made precious little sense to Francis. The sunlight hurt his eyes.

Fitzjames pressed the Smith & Wesson into Francis’s hand. Francis stared down at it dumbly, noted—in his bleary-eyes state—that it was cocked. Looked back up at Fitzjames. The man was still talking, pointing now towards the other tent where a figure lay bound and cursing, hurling vulgar phrases at both of them.

“Don’t fall asleep,” Fitzjames said. Francis nodded. He watched Fitzjames right himself and saddle up Erebus and wondered idly if this was where Fitzjames finally left him. His figure grew smaller and smaller against the sun, and Francis noticed something else, encroaching on his field of vision. A darkness, warm and safe, that promised—

_Francis’s hands are shaking with humiliation._

_They were in the library, in the same spot where Francis had first seen her, that little settee, the place where they had spent so many afternoons discussing Francis’s hunts. Francis will remember her smile forever, but it’s tainted now with the memory of how she’d looked at him._

_“Stay with me, then.”_

_Francis shakes his head._

_“I don’t have the money.”_

_Something on her face, breaking. “Then my answer is no, Francis.”_

_When his face twists into disappointment, she takes his hand. “I will only make this one request of you. If it’s something you cannot grant me, then please—we are two very different people. It won’t work.”_

_Fitzjames, when Francis seeks refuge with him, is sitting at the table in his cabin, considering Francis. “You know there are worse things a man can endure than heartbreak.” His smile, full of teeth, a flashy thing. “I know a few things that could take your mind off it.”_

_Had he thought even then—_

Someone was cradling the back of his head. Francis’s eyes shot open, and he found himself face to face with Fitzjames, his cheeks reddened from the heat though the sun had long since disappeared behind the horizon. He was pouring small sips of water into Francis’s mouth, resting his forehead against Francis’s, muttering quietly.

“You’re lucky you’re still alive, you bastard. Giving me a fright like that. Do you know you’re forbidden from leaving me now, after everything I’ve done for you? You’re a terrible man.”

Francis wanted to smile. Fitzjames still cared. That was important, somehow.

“I love you; God, I love you and I wish I didn’t.”

The words twisted Francis’s heart, worse than the throbbing in his hand. He wanted to say something, but forming words seemed an effort far greater than what little strength he could muster, and he was so tired—

_They are stumbling into the cabin, pressed together tightly at the shoulder as though they’ve been stitched together. Their bellies are ripe with laughter. The smell of the herd and the wildflowers clings to them but Francis does not feel ashamed of it, never has with Fitzjames._

_There is a brightness in Fitzjames’s eyes when he looks at Francis, and Francis is sure Fitzjames sees the same in his. It’s been too long since he felt this light-hearted._

_The laughter falls away, like the stop to a sudden rain. Fitzjames looks at Francis._

_“Francis,” he says deeply. He steps forward, bringing with him the smell of wildflowers and sweat. Francis does not step away. He lifts his hand to brush away and errand leaf on Fitzjames’s coat and surrenders to his fate when Fitzjames captures his hand between his own. Francis watches with rapt attention as Fitzjames brings it up to his face to kiss it._

_It’s Francis’s first time with a man. He watches the shifting of Fitzjames’s muscle with rapt attention. He’s never seen anything as beautiful as the form of Fitzjames’s body. He wonders what Fitzjames sees in him, afterwards—surely he simply took pity on Francis. Surely he does not beg men for their prick up his arse normally, nor sigh with relief when they finally breach him._

_Or perhaps he does. Francis has no way of knowing. What he does know is that this will have to be the last time. Everything else would be ill-advised, courting danger in the face of his reputation and the career he’s built. Surely Fitzjames will understand—_

He woke one morning, warm not from fever but simply from the sun beating down on the small tent. He could appreciate the different quality of the heat—a dry heat that made things crackle and break, not the sweltering kind of heat that had wanted to eat him up from the inside.

It felt like a birth, emerging from that tent, the crawling out of some dark womb that had cradled him close enough to choke him. Fitzjames looked up from where he was bent over tying a rope, and the look on his face when Francis met his eyes with clarity was a warmth deeper yet than anything Francis had ever felt.

He knelt before Fitzjames and took his hand into his own. There was nothing like the feeling of Fitzjames’s fingers interlaced with those of his left hand: the hands that had saved him, even after everything Francis had done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, Francis's hand gets shot off by Hickey and James later amputates it. If you want to avoid the more graphic descriptions, stop reading at " _He reached for his own—and then couldn’t feel his hand anymore."_. You can resume reading at " _Stumbling, he got to his feet._ ". The injury is referenced throughout the rest of the chapter. 
> 
> This week's song is [Nothing Fades like the Light](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8cqkcArzNP8) by Orville Peck because I love to cry.


	11. Mountains, Rivers, Valleys Can't Compare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One day early, since I will be spending tomorrow binge-reading Fitzier exchange fics!

“I can ride.”

“Just—”

“I can _ride_.”

_“Francis.”_

Fitzjames dropped the arms that had been insistently bracketing Francis. He did _not_ step back, trapping Francis between his body and Terror. Francis did his best not to take too much note of it, as his own body still seemed to remember the tenderness with which Fitzjames had treated him over the course of his fever. Francis found himself swaying into Fitzjames when he wasn’t paying attention, as though seeking out his warmth.

Terror had grown quite fond of Fitzjames while Francis was ill, if the way the appaloosa turned his head to nuzzle at Fitzjames’s hand was anything to go by. Fitzjames smiled indulgently and stroked the horse’s forehead. Francis watched him with a dry mouth. He felt like a quilt, torn and then stitched together with bright new thread—like Fitzjames had woven himself into the broken parts of Francis.

Well, the salvageable ones, anyway.

“Just let me help you up,” Fitzjames said.

Francis flexed the fingers of his left hand, resting firmly on Terror’s saddle horn. “I have to get used to… _this_.”

They both glanced at the stump of his right hand briefly. Fitzjames looked like he was about to say something else, about how Francis didn’t have to bear everything alone probably, and about how his insistence that he did made him a miserable man—but then Fitzjames just sighed and raised his hands in defeat. “Alright.”

He stepped back, taking his body’s warmth and the memory of comfort with him. Francis wished he hadn’t objected. He kept watching Fitzjames for a moment longer, but when the man only went over to Erebus, Francis focussed on the task ahead.

How hard could it be? He’d been riding since he was a boy.

He got one foot in the stirrup. His arms were still weak from days of lying prone and sweating through his fever. With a grunt, he hefted his body up; got one leg over Terror and slumped down in the saddle rather inelegantly.

He felt dizzy, but he wasn’t going to tell Fitzjames.

It had been decided—by Fitzjames, whose consultation of Francis had consisted of a pointed look that all but dared Francis to object—that Hickey would ride on Erebus, hands bound. Fitzjames would have liked to wait another day or two for Francis to recover some of his strength, but they had run out of everything save water, which Fitzjames had dragged a mile through the desert for them every day. Francis had felt his throat close up when Fitzjames told him matter-of-factly how he’d made the calculation—risk Hickey’s escape, or Francis’s death from the fever. He’d chosen Francis. He was the first, and likely to be the last, Francis knew.

Fitzjames helped Hickey onto Erebus’s back. The man had ceased his cursing and in fact all talk when Francis woke. Now he simply watched them with beady-eyed curiosity, as though trying to piece together a puzzle with nothing but the power of his mind.

Francis found he still had trouble reconciling the ever-smiling effusive Emmanuel with the man Hickey had turned out to be. There was no small measure of blame in it—Francis cursed himself for not figuring it out sooner.

Fitzjames turned to Francis once he was seated atop Erebus like a king on his throne. “Alright?”

Francis nodded. “Let’s go.”

They rode out. Francis spared no last look at the site of their camp—he had survived, that was all that mattered to him. He’d not asked Fitzjames what had happened to the mangled remains of his hand and wasn’t planning on it.

They had to stop frequently throughout the day. The heat, combined with the exertion of riding, wore Francis out worse than before. At least he became more practised at mounting Terror, and by the time they stopped when darkness fell, he felt almost comfortable in the saddle.

“We caught up with him in half a day,” Francis grumbled when he realised they wouldn’t make Loquillas before nightfall.

“We were riding considerably faster.” There was something terribly efficient about all of Fitzjames’s movements now, something that reminded Francis of when he himself had been seeking refuge in the tasks of the trail so as not to face—well, Fitzjames, and whatever affection had remained for him. Fitzjames was distancing himself from Francis. He pulled Hickey off the horse and bound his feet again. With a hammer, he drove one of the tent poles into the ground, then tied Hickey to it.

The temperature still dropped at night, but at Francis’s insistence they forewent the tents. He didn’t want to burden Fitzjames beyond what was absolutely necessary. Fitzjames acquiesced with a curt nod, then started on the fire.

There was nothing to eat, so they just swilled water around in their mouths and dreamed of the delicacies they’d eat if they could—glazed ham, a fine steak, a mother’s casserole. Francis wished for a good right hand and a bighorn in his sights.

“I’ll take first watch,” Fitzjames said when the time came. Francis was tired enough to give in without protestations. He grabbed his bedroll. As he did, Fitzjames caught his arm.

“Let me see that first.”

“You don’t have to—” Francis stilled at the expression on Fitzjames’s face: he remembered its cousins well, the desperation of Fitzjames, his vigil of Francis’s sickbed. Sufficiently chastised, he seated himself next to Fitzjames, who began unwrapping the bandages with careful hands. Francis couldn’t suppress a shiver.

“Looks clean,” Fitzjames announced. “Hold it like this for a second. I’ll get fresh bandages.”

He unfolded himself and stalked over to his pack. Francis looked up to find Hickey craning his head for a better look at Francis’s stump. Francis scowled.

“Sorry about that,” Hickey said. Francis wouldn’t have believed him even without the cheerful tone of his voice.

“Shut up.”

“Right away, sir. Shutting up, sir.” The grin seemed fixed to his face. Francis turned away, loathe to give him more attention.

Fitzjames returned with the bandages.

Francis watched Fitzjames’s face in the firelight as Fitzjames bandaged his stump. He’d tucked his hair behind his ears to keep it out of the way, and the fire played with the haughty lines of his face in a way that entranced Francis. Fitzjames was focussed, absorbed—but there was something gentle about his expression that made Francis’s throat close up again. Were it not for the knowledge of Hickey’s eyes still on them, he might have mentioned it.

Fitzjames finished tying the bandage with a neat bow. When he took his hands away, Francis mourned their loss.

“I’ll sleep, then,” he said slowly, hoping—he didn’t know what he was hoping for.

Again, a shifting in Fitzjames’s eyes that could have only been the firelight. A softening of his brow. “Sleep well, Francis.”

* * *

Loquillas peeled itself out of the shimmering landscape, looking like a mirage until other riders passed them, headed out of town for a day or two of hunting, and Francis realised they had made it. Well, at least a step of the way.

They paused a little ways outside of town and drank the rest of their water. Hickey complained when Fitzjames took the waterskin from him, and Francis reminded him that he was lucky to get any. Fitzjames looked between them like he was waiting for a fight to break out.

“Remember,” Fitzjames said as Francis laced up his pack, “Straight to the doctors. Pick up provisions afterwards. Come back if you can, send word otherwise.”

“I remember,” Francis said, though a sarcastic retort had been on the tip of his tongue. The care that Fitzjames devoted to him was painful, because it was temporary.

He swung up into the saddle—almost comfortable with it now—and headed out, leaning forward in the saddle to whisper a thank you in Terror’s ear for being a good horse. They’d never have caught Hickey if Terror hadn’t listened so well.

Inquiries around town quickly led him to the house of one Harry Goodsir—opinion on whether or not he was a medical doctor had been mixed. It was a wooden house, one story, with a chicken coop out back and a small garden that Francis couldn’t describe as anything but hopelessly optimistic. The front had been painted with a colourful pattern, blues and reds, but Francis had never had much of an artistic mind.

He knocked.

It turned out Goodsir was an anatomist, not a doctor, though Francis couldn’t have rightly named the difference between the two. He was happy enough to take a look at Francis’s hand, in exchange for what little coin Francis could produce from the reserves of his last job.

Francis was reasonably sure there was at least one more person in the house—he hadn’t been a hunter as long as he had without developing a feeling for how many persons were at a given location—but Goodsir didn’t mention it, and so Francis chose not to inquire.

There were plate photographs hung on the dark wood walls of the house—Francis spied animals, plants, a snow-covered landscape with ice bergs in the background. No people.

“You’re lucky you survived,” Goodsir commented as he unwrapped the bandages around the stump of Francis’s hand. He had a doctor’s bedside manner, but a scientist’s critical gaze, and Francis found the contrast disconcerting. His voice was gentle but there was something in his frown that had Francis feeling like a specimen, laid bare for dissection.

“What did you say necessitated the amputation?”

Francis hadn’t, and Goodsir knew that. He cleared his throat. “A bullet wound. Two fingers were lost, and most of the bone shattered.”

Goodsir paused, his hands hovering over the wound. “Dangerous business, hunting.”

Francis’s smile was pained. “It is indeed.”

Goodsir was different around him, after that. Francis could imagine he didn’t think very highly of Francis’s occupation. But he dressed the wound and left Francis with a salve. Francis wondered where Goodsir was from—he didn’t sound like the people around here, and he was obviously an educated man.

“Keep that clean,” Goodsir instructed as he washed his hands. “Change the bandages every day, twice a day if you’re sweating a lot. Boil the bandages for at least half an hour.”

Francis nodded. “I will keep it in mind.”

He stepped out of the small house back into the afternoon sun, hanging low above the town’s houses. There was a woman feeding the chickens. She narrowed her eyes at Francis. She had dark hair, plaited in two braids that fell almost to her shoulders. She looked native, but not like the natives from around here, and again Francis was confused—but the woman’s eyes let him know that he was not welcome to intrude any longer. With a whispered greeting to Terror, he was back in the saddle and off again.

* * *

Fitzjames had gotten a fire going by the time Francis returned.

The sky was a vivid purple, the kind of light that seemed reluctant to yield its place to the night. Francis had had trouble keeping his eyes on the road.

He was downwind, and so he smelled the fire before he saw the camp. He knew the familiar tightening of his heart when Fitzjames came into view—bent low over the fire and shifting the logs around with a stick—for what it was: the signs of an affection, recognised too late to still deserve acknowledging. He had spurned Fitzjames when Fitzjames had offered himself. His heart had no business mourning that fact now.

Hickey was sitting a ways off, tied to a dead tree—and he was talking, Francis realised, though Fitzjames was doing his best to ignore him.

He could only catch fragments of the conversation, one-sided as it was _—“seen you… knows what… if you think that I won’t…”_ —no matter how much he strained his ears, and by the time he was close enough to hear anything, Hickey had noticed his approach. He never talked around Francis.

“Everything alright?” he asked ins his most authoritative voice as he swung out of the saddle. James looked pensive as he turned towards Francis, as though he really hadn’t been listening to a word Hickey had said.

“Hm? Oh, yes.”

Francis handed Fitzjames the bag of provisions, filled to bursting.

They ate well that night, and more than they should considering the lean days they’d had. Francis’s stomach ached with it by the time he was done. He’d forgotten the simple joy of fresh food—the sweet taste of prickly pear combined with the salty taste of bacon, washed down with beer. Even sweeter was the smile on Fitzjames’s face as he savoured his meal, eyes closed. Francis hoarded the image, greedy as he was, knowing the memory of it would only serve to break his heart.

* * *

Their trek back to Day Break was slower than their way down had been, even though they were spared the detour through Tuckerrock. Francis was glad when the arid plains gave way to more familiar country, just as the weather turned firmly from summer to autumn.

Hickey still didn’t talk around Francis, but Francis caught him speaking to James again once or twice—always one-sided, with James always ignoring him—and wondered if he should ask James about it. Then again, if James didn’t bring it up, he clearly didn’t think it was a problem, and Francis didn’t want James thinking that Francis didn’t trust him.

They ate well, travelled slowly. Francis shot at practise targets with his left hand, bracing the barrel of the rifle on his stump, and missed most of the time but not always. He often got angry, and one time—when Fitzjames was preoccupied with the skinning of a deer—he walked a few paces towards the setting sun and cried, feeling ridiculous as it came out of him in sharp, burning tears and a tightness in his chest that threatened to strangle him. But he did feel better, afterwards.

He learned to saddle Terror one-handedly and changed the bandages every night as Goodsir had told him. He taught Fitzjames how to read the tracks of a deer, how to tell them from a bighorn, and how to follow the animal. Fitzjames didn’t have the capacity for total silence that Francis had—he was too large, Francis thought, and real stealth required precise control of one’s body—but his hunting became tolerable enough that they often had fresh meat.

Hickey proved the sorest point of their travels—his beady eyes were everywhere, and he sat like a dark spot forever at the edge of their vision. Francis had never felt so wholly uncomfortable with a bounty as he did with that man, and yet he could find no objective fault with his behaviour. It was his mere presence that set Francis on edge. He wanted to talk to Fitzjames, to thank him properly, but it was impossible to find the words with Hickey’s eyes always on them, and every day felt like he was leaving the right moment to say something further and further behind.

* * *

They watched the storm build on the north-eastern edge of the sky all day.

Over breakfast, Fitzjames had expressed his hope that it would spend its force before it ever reached them, but as Francis’s eyes followed the darkening of the sky throughout the day, the approaching clouds and sinking sun, he knew that wouldn’t be their luck. The clouds had an orange tint to them—a vicious colour. It would be a bad storm.

Francis didn’t protest when Fitzjames began setting up their tents by himself. Instead, he went around the campsite for firewood while Fitzjames double-checked the fastenings.

Hickey was mercifully quiet over dinner. They ate venison they’d smoked from the deer Fitzjames had shot the other day, chewing with one eye to the sky, and washed it down with the last of the beer from Loquillas. The sky was more than dark by the time they were done, and Francis left Fitzjames to tie up Hickey in the one tent while he went to hastily rinse out their plates.

He was in the tent before Fitzjames, but Fitzjames ducked in behind him not long after, just as the first drops began to thud down heavily on the canvas. Fitzjames shook out his hair, began pulling off his boots and shoving at Francis. “Budge up.”

Francis jolted at the contact. He made some more space for Fitzjames, set aside the journal he’d pulled from his pack. Fitzjames reached for one of the blankets, draping it across his shoulders.

“Damned wind,” he said, “I thought I couldn’t be cold enough after that blasted desert. Now I almost miss it.”

“You’re cold?” Francis cursed himself. He felt like he was five years old, stumbling across words.

Fitzjames stilled, frowning at Francis briefly. “Yes.”

They listened to the steady drumming of the rain. Despite the tightly shut lacing, each gust of wind brought cold air into the tent, wet and unforgiving. At the first clap of thunder, both of them flinched. Neither of them chose to comment.

“If I was Hickey, I’d made a run for it now,” Fitzjames said.

“He wouldn’t last five minutes out in this,” Francis said brusquely. Then he thought he’d given that statement rather more certainty than he felt.

“Maybe.” Fitzjames shrugged and _oh_ , he looked beautiful like this—travel-worn and dust-stained, blanket slipping off one shoulder. He was worrying his lip between his teeth and exposed that crooked tooth: the wayward, free-spirited benefactor of the most beautiful smile Francis had ever seen.

“Hickey does have that way of people who keep turning up,” Fitzjames said, “A bad penny, if you will.”

Francis laughed at that—a dry, bitter sound. If Hickey weren’t the type who kept turning up, Francis might still have his hand. “That he does.”

Another gust of wind. Fitzjames shivered and drew the blanket back up from where it had slipped.

“Are you cold?”

Francis could have slapped himself. Perhaps it would bring him back to his senses. Fitzjames gave him a curious look. “It _is_ cold, Francis.”

“Well, just—” Francis sighed, defeated by his own inability to form a coherent sentence around Fitzjames. “Just get over here.”

Fitzjames raised his eyebrows, but he came. They fumbled like people who were too acquainted with each other’s bodies to still feel comfortable, then Fitzjames settled with his back to Francis’s chest, blanket still wrapped tightly around himself. Francis felt him sigh and wrapped his arms tighter around Fitzjames.

“Careful, Francis,” Fitzjames said. Francis could tell his eyebrows had shot even higher by the inflection of his voice. “A man might get ideas.”

Francis’s breath stoppered up his throat. Fitzjames sounded like he might not be entirely opposed to the notion of _ideas_ , something Francis hadn’t even dared to consider. Surely after everything Francis had said—

He should put these thoughts out of his head. He shouldn’t do that to Fitzjames. Hell, he shouldn’t do that to _himself_. Better to part ways amicably at the end of this than to reveal the pathetic nature of his own longing. It was the kind thing to do: Let Fitzjames go like he’d been unable to do with Sophia for so long.

Fitzjames shifted, sinking back further into Francis’s embrace.

Damn it all. He needed to know.

He opened his mouth before his eyes fell on the tent flaps. With them came the memory of Hickey and the world outside. Francis closed his mouth again, fumbled for the journal he’d set aside. Fitzjames’s gaze followed his hand, passingly interested. Francis’s pen was tucked between the pages. He flipped to a blank page. His hand was shaking. He hesitated; pen poised over the page. Then he wrote:

_COME WITH ME_

The letters were unevenly spaced and crude—he had yet to grow accustomed to writing with his left. He could see Fitzjames’s mouth forming the words. Then, Fitzjames’s eyes snapped up. He twisted around to look at Francis.

Francis had found himself at the end of that stare innumerable times. Once upon a time, it had scared him: everything that lay in it, the way Fitzjames held nothing back. Hope, the naked thing in his heart, shining through brightly. Francis had chosen the cowardly path before.

He wanted to do better.

_I NEED YOU_ , he wrote. And, _WITH ME._

His hand was shaking even worse. He couldn’t look up; couldn’t face the consequences of this thing he’d put out into the world. What would he do with rejection the second time around? Where would he keep it? Where would he go, if this refuge was taken from him?

He steeled himself; looked up. He had vowed not to be cowardly anymore.

Fitzjames was staring at him but the quality of it was different now. “Do you mean it?”

Francis nodded; lips locked tightly together. He knew whatever wanted to force its way out of his mouth was pathetic, and it was better to keep it locked there forever.

“I won’t forgive you again.” Fitzjames’s eyes had a hunted look to them. “If you leave me, I won’t forgive you again. Hell, I shouldn’t forgive you now.”

He pursed his lips, the very picture of a man on the cusp of something. Then he scrambled to turn around, knocking the journal and pen out of Francis’s hand in his haste to do so—ink splattered from the tip of the pen across both their hands, dark and viscous like a blood pact. Fitzjames kissed him.

It was remarkable how something could be familiar and yet foreign—Francis had kissed Fitzjames on numerous occasions, certainly more than he could count, and yet this kiss trumped all others in its novelty. It lay in the way Fitzjames cradled Francis’s face in his hands, like he was afraid it might break should it slip out of his grasp. It lay in the way his knees bracketed Francis. It lay in the rain and thunder outside, and the fact that Fitzjames was no longer shivering from the cold.

Fitzjames tried to break the kiss, but Francis couldn’t let him go, not yet—Fitzjames sighed into the warmth of Francis’s mouth, and Francis anchored himself with his fists in Fitzjames’s shirt. Then Francis tried to pull away and Fitzjames chased his mouth. Francis thought he caught the glimpse of a smile—a twitching thing in the corner of his mouth, like Fitzjames was still trying to think better of it. Fitzjames held him fast with one hand locked around the back of Francis’s neck and kept drawing him in when Francis—first with gestures, then with quietly mumbled words—tried to tell him they’d have to calm down or he couldn’t be held accountable for his actions. He’d never kissed Fitzjames so long without tearing his clothes off in the process.

“Please,” he whispered, a strangled sound, “Please, James—”

Fitzjames smiled, then—a bright thing, bright enough to light their tent for sure, then pressed a hand to his mouth to stifle the laughter that wanted to escape. He kissed Francis again.

“Let me,” he said between kisses. And, “Just one more,” like he couldn’t believe something and was trying to convince himself of its veracity.

One of them would have to get up. Eventually, someone would go to sit by the entrance of the tent to keep watch. But not just yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this week's cowboy tears are brought to you by [I'll Be Here in the Morning](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yXCA9_RRG-E) by Townes Van Zandt!


	12. Nobody Walks Between Them

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before we begin this chapter, I have to note that Colter Wall recorded the perfect song for Erebus on his latest album. [High & Mighty](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZO8L1lYU_JU) indeed!
> 
> On a second note, if you want a content warning for the Animal Death tag, please check the end notes.

“Not like that, you’ll spook her.”

Fitzjames was tugging at Francis’s sleeve insistently, redirecting his approach towards Erebus. “She’s a delicate horse.”

Francis snorted. “A horse is a horse.”

Their day’s ride completed they had made camp by some trees that sheltered from the wind. To while away the hours until sunset, Fitzjames had issued a challenge.

“I’ve ridden horses before, you know.”

Francis could only partially give his voice the sound of his former ire—Fitzjames’s affection was still too novel for him to be truly cross with the man. Erebus, however, seemed to know nothing of the newfound peace between the men, and eyed Francis with as much suspicion as ever. Francis didn’t believe she could truly be as fickle as Fitzjames claimed. Fitzjames had invited him to ride her, an entirely too smug smile on his face.

“She’s not just any horse, Francis, she’s a racehorse,” Fitzjames explained. To hear the man talking about horses one would think he’d never stop. Erebus certainly was a fancy fucking horse—but she was just a horse, Francis was sure of that.

“In any case, I can’t approach her any other way.” Francis gestured with his stump. “So let’s just get to it.”

He reached for the saddlehorn; suddenly glad he’d gotten so much practise with Terror. Erebus stood slightly taller, spindly and fey-like as she was, with that chestnut-brown coat that looked black unless the sun hit it right. Francis got his leg across her, peering suspiciously at the ground below. The height of her just wasn’t quite right.

Erebus shifted under him—Francis could feel the thrumming of unease in her muscles and leaned forward to pat her neck. She jumped, and Fitzjames called out: “Careful now!”

Francis didn’t get thrown off, but it was a near thing. Fitzjames managed to calm her enough that she came to rest again, with Fitzjames petting her forehead and whispering quiet words to her. Francis wanted to tell him that a good horse had no business being this skittish but one, he’d never seen her that skittish with Fitzjames and two, he was distracted by the quiet rumble of Fitzjames’s voice. He wanted very badly to kiss him again and reached for the first best thing to distract himself from that thought.

“I suppose I’ll give riding her a try, then.”

He urged her forward as Fitzjames stepped back and was surprised at her easy gait, unfamiliar and yet pleasant to follow. For a moment, he could see why Fitzjames was so enamoured with her. But Erebus still hadn’t made her peace with her new rider.

As she took a few dainty steps forward, Francis could feel the thrumming in her muscles. He’d never considered himself afraid in the saddle, but in that moment he felt it—the fear and knowledge of being at the mercy of something that was larger, faster, and more powerful than he was, and that wanted him gone very badly.

He managed to hold himself in the saddle through her first jump. It did not help his dignity. His foot slipped out of the stirrup and with her next jump, Erebus succeeded in dislodging him from the saddle enough that he careened sideways, colliding hard with the ground beneath.

He rolled away even as Fitzjames rushed past him—to calm the horse, Francis realised, not to look after him. He groaned and righted himself.

There was a dull pain in his shoulder. His injured pride felt more acute. There had never been a horse that he couldn’t ride apart from Fitzjames’s bloody standardbred.

“Are you alright?”

Fitzjames’s voice echoed his concern, though Francis could tell he was amused, and biting back the _I told you so_ until he was sure Francis hadn’t broken any bones. Francis rolled his eyes and clambered to his feet, rubbing the sore spot on his shoulder.

“I’m fine,” he said haughtily.

“Are you sure? I can—”

“I’m fine,” Francis said again, and this time Fitzjames did laugh, though to his credit he did try to stifle it.

“Your face was—” He interrupted himself with another bout of laughter.

“I’ll thank you not to speak of it.”

“I’ve never seen such a look of betrayal,” Fitzjames gasped.

“She’s a devil of a horse,” Francis muttered, arms crossed. Erebus was looking at them, her dark eyes daring Francis to try a stunt like this again.

Fitzjames clasped a hand to his shoulder. “I’ll leave you your hunting if you admit that I’m the better rider.”

“I’ll do no such thing. Your horse is possessed.”

Fitzjames had taken Erebus by the reins and was leading her back towards camp while keeping an easy pace with Francis. Their proximity was perhaps closer than entirely proper, but Francis could not bring himself to step away.

“She’s simply headstrong,” Fitzjames said, a glint of amusement lingering in his eyes. “Luckily, that’s a quality I appreciate.”

* * *

They were close to Day Break now.

For a while, they had followed the rail line, a straight path in a land full of narrow, twisting roads. Then they had turned away from it, heading northeast.

They met other riders on the road. The weather got steadily worse—colder, with a biting wind that often drove rain before it in great gusts until they were soaked through. At night, they shivered before the campfire, close enough for their shoulders to occasionally brush, and Francis tried not to look at Fitzjames in wonder every time they did.

He wished there was a moment for him to talk to Fitzjames.

They couldn’t let Hickey out of their sight, and so everything that passed between them had to be communicated in carefully calculated touches and shared looks. Francis felt like a fire had been lit inside of him that was now slowly but surely consuming him. He wanted to ask Fitzjames if he felt the same, if the breath left him every time their hands so much as brushed. From the look that Francis sometimes caught on his face when he was bent over some task, Francis thought that might well be the case.

* * *

Francis had pulled the meat off the fire and was leaving it to cool while Fitzjames struggled with the biscuits he insisted worked just fine when baked on a hot stone by the fire. So far, Francis had heard him curse the biscuits’ mother—which Francis supposed in this case meant Fitzjames himself—God, the concept of baking, the stone which he’d chosen, and the unfortunate soul that had begotten Fitzjames himself. At each new insult, Francis found it a little harder to contain the broad smile that threatened to split his face. If he wanted to maintain even a shred of plausible deniability in the face of Hickey, he would have to work a little harder on his miserable persona, but the truth was, he did not feel miserable at all.

“Need any help with that?”

At the question, Fitzjames turned to Francis with a flick of his hair. Francis was sure he would never tire of the view of Fitzjames in the firelight—the way it played with his intricate, complicated face, highlighting every pleasing shape of it.

“You could start by not laughing at me.”

“I’m not laughing,” Francis said with an air of utmost seriousness. He ruined it a moment later by finally giving in to the laughter that had been building at the pit of his stomach, near doubling over with the force of it.

“Excellent,” Fitzjames said dryly, “I’m sure that’ll help dinner along.”

“I’m sure your swearing did more to that end.” Francis suggested between bouts of laughter. Fitzjames did not dignify that with a response.

“I suppose I’ll have to throw it out,” he admitted, “A shame. The woman who gave me this recipe swore by it. Said she’d never had anything better than these biscuits by the fireside.”

“We’ll try again,” Francis assured him in an effort at placating Fitzjames even as the man scraped together the sad remnants of his dough, burnt to a crisp on one side and entirely liquid on the other. He went to dispose of it while Francis pulled the meat off the stick and split it up on three plates. It was tender and greasy.

Francis took Hickey’s plate over to him. He’d learnt to ignore the way Hickey’s eyes followed his every movement. With a hand that had become more practised at untying knots over the last weeks he loosened the knot enough that Hickey could slip one hand out, then retied the other and made sure it sat firmly on the stake. When Fitzjames returned, Francis handed him his plate and they ate in contented silence, accompanied only by the crackling of fire, the calling of the nightbirds, and the occasional distant yip of a coyote.

“I could get used to living like this,” Fitzjames commented as they rinsed out their plates. Francis looked up in surprise, and when he met Fitzjames’s eyes there was meaning in them, thick as syrup. Francis’s heart leapt painfully. They were no more than a day’s ride out from Day Break, and whatever came afterwards for them. Fitzjames’s words were a reminder that—

“I’m terribly sorry to interrupt the moment, gentlemen.”

They both whirled around at the sound of the new voice. Hickey was standing, hands free, a gun in his hand. _Francis’s_ gun.

“That’s the second time you’ve stolen from me, boy,” Francis said even while he tried to calculate how quickly he could get to his Krag. He wasn’t very keen on losing another hand.

“If it’s any consolation,” Hickey said, “I plan on it being the last.”

Fitzjames didn’t carry a pistol. Damn it all to hell, when had Hickey gotten the gun off Francis? When had he freed himself off the rope? He’d taken his eyes off him for two seconds at most—

Hickey was moving slowly—towards the horses, Francis’s mind supplied.

“I know what you’re thinking, but this doesn’t have to get ugly.”

The danger, Francis thought, was that Hickey never stopped talking, which made it seem like his mouth was the most dangerous thing about him. He talked to distract, and before you knew it, he had you right where he wanted you.

“Just let me go, and we can forget about the whole affair. It’ll be for the best, for all of us.”

Hickey nodded towards Fitzjames; eyebrows raised pointedly.

Francis was moving as well now, careful steps. He just had to get to his pack without raising Hickey’s suspicion. Fitzjames by his side had his hands balled into fists.

“Isn’t that right, James?”

Francis made the mistake of glancing sideways at Fitzjames for just a second, to see what kind of reaction that had elicited from Fitzjames, and then everybody moved very quickly—Fitzjames lunged at Hickey, who fired a shot that went wide; then Hickey turned and made a break for the horses, who were rearing from the sounds of gunfire. Francis reached his pack just as Hickey swung into the saddle—he’d picked Terror again, the bastard, probably because he’d seen how finicky Erebus could be. Francis drew the Krag from its sheath, engaged the bolt and knelt on the ground, rifle braced on his right arm.

“Francis, wait—”

Fitzjames called, but too late—Francis had already fired, the shot ringing out loudly in the dark and wide night. He’d aimed for Hickey’s back as the bastard rode away, but he should have known his aim wasn’t what it once was. Terror veered sideways, staggering forward a few more paces, then sagged down on his front legs. Hickey scrambled out of the saddle.

Terror. He’d shot Terror.

Fitzjames came up next to him and yanked the rifle from Francis’s grip. He took one more step forward to brace himself as he slipped another round into the chamber, lined up the sight of the gun to his eye, and fired. Hickey fell to the ground, like a match, snuffed out.

He’d shot Terror.

“You could have waited,” Fitzjames hissed, then helped Francis to his feet as he staggered forward helplessly towards where Terror lay screaming.

Francis knelt next to the horse. He heard someone’s voice and realised it was his own, mumbling over and over— _“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”_

He reached for his knife, realised the spot in his belt was empty. That explained something about Hickey and how he’d gotten out of the rope. He fumbled blindly for Fitzjames. “Your knife,” he croaked, then added louder, “Give me your knife.”

Fitzjames complied silently, passing Francis the knife and then resting his hand on Francis’s shoulder.

Terror’s eyes were wild with fear. Francis could faintly make out the blood seeping into the grass below and had to wipe away hot tears to clear his vision. Over ten years, and now—

“Help him out of it, Francis.”

Fitzjames’s voice was gentle but insistent, and Francis nodded. “Yes.”

His throat felt raw.

He plunged the knife deep into Terror’s neck, twisted it once and felt hot blood gush over his hands. Nausea welled up in his stomach, but he did not avert his eyes—it was the least he could do for the animal that had served him so well for so many years. At last, Terror, stopped struggling, and his body went limp.

Francis stood. He felt wide awake and terribly exhausted. Fitzjames took his hand, wet with blood.

“Come,” he said, leading Francis slowly back towards their camp. “We’ll take care of this in the morning.”

* * *

They buried Hickey at sunrise. Francis would have just as soon set fire to the corpse, but Fitzjames reasoned there should be something for Franklin to find, should he want to corroborate their story. Francis couldn’t care less about Franklin. He relented because he knew what it meant to Fitzjames.

They loaded both tents onto Erebus, as well as the rest of their provision. Francis carried Terror’s saddle, even though Fitzjames offered to take it from him at least three times before they set out, and two more on the way.

Then they started walking.

The day was beautiful. The trees had turned an offensive shade of red and orange, brighter than fire, offset by the green of the pines. The wind was cool and fresh, smelling not so much of the coming winter as simply rich soil and clean air, thick on Francis’s tongue. He resented the day for being so beautiful.

At least Fitzjames was at his side.

“Maybe it’s for the best,” Fitzjames said, “Hickey, I mean.”

Francis half turned towards Fitzjames, surprised. He’d never seemed the type for vengeance. “Why?”

Fitzjames’s mouth twisted unhappily. “He knew, Francis.”

At once, Francis’s heart sank. Careful, but not careful enough. “Did he…?”

“Threaten me?” Fitzjames shrugged. “I think he thought I’d let him go if I was scared enough. He certainly seemed to believe you were ready enough to kill him. He didn’t think I had it in me, though.”

Fitzjames scoffed and shook his head. As far as Francis knew, Hickey was the first man Fitzjames had killed. That sort of thing weighed on a man.

“Did you?”

Fitzjames took a deep breath. Francis patiently watched him form his mouth around a range of words until he finally settled on: “I was so furious.”

Francis nodded as Fitzjames continued. “It wasn’t just the fact that he was trying to blackmail me—us. He shot you, Francis! And I—” He shook his head vigorously. “I could have lost you.”

Francis stopped in his tracks and halted Fitzjames with a hand on his sleeve. He took Fitzjames’s hand in his own. “I never thanked you.”

Fitzjames had trouble meeting his eyes. It was odd, Francis had rarely seen him as anything but perfectly confident. “I don’t want to think about it, Francis.”

“Then we don’t have to talk about it again.” Francis pressed a gentle kiss to Fitzjames’s knuckles. They moved on.

“Did I ever tell you about the first bounty I shot?” Francis asked as they walked. He knew he hadn’t—there wasn’t much in these stories that lent itself to glory, and Francis had always considered the killing of someone, whether guilty or not, a waste of his time as a bounty hunter. Had he wanted to kill people, he could have become an executioner.

“You haven’t,” Fitzjames said with the air of a man who knew he was being placated but was willing to let it happen.

They walked, shoulders brushing occasionally, Francis with Terror’s saddle slung on his hip and Fitzjames leading Erebus, as Francis told his story. They waded through Cross Run in the late afternoon, the sun beginning to dip towards the horizon like it was losing momentum. The water was cold as always, not far from the ice and snow it had once been. On the other side, they sat at stretched out their legs, waiting for them to dry in the fading sunlight before putting on their boots and continuing on their path.

The distance between them widened gradually as they approached Day Break, but Francis could still feel the nearness of Fitzjames—it could no longer be taken from him by something so provincial as physical proximity, or the lack thereof. He felt bound to Fitzjames in a way he could not explain.

They reached Day Break after dark, the stars above them shining in bright, flickering multitudes. Both of them were exhausted, but Francis insisted they stop at the main house. He wanted this business over with now, and then he wanted to take Fitzjames somewhere they could both be alone and unwatched for several hours. Beyond that, he hadn’t made plans.

* * *

Hoar looked displeased when Francis asked him—and asked him again, after the first refusal—to call Franklin down. Francis knew it was likely a moderately stupid idea, but he was done with this assignment.

Hoar led them into the office while Franklin made himself presentable for his visitors. Fitzjames looked smaller in the dark office, and on impulse, Francis reached for his hand and squeezed it, once, before letting it fall from his grasp again. Fitzjames gave him a grateful smile.

Franklin didn’t look happy when he entered the office. He’d thrown a robe over his nightshirt, his hair hastily brushed into a semblance of order.

“I was beginning to think you wouldn’t return.”

Francis could have said a great many things then—about the desert, about the loss of his hand and the death of Terror—but the truth was, Franklin wasn’t a man who would ever understand the privations of the road, not truly. He would listen to the stories, and shudder at the kind of pleasant horror they instilled, but that was all.

“Hickey’s dead,” Francis said.

“That wasn’t the deal.”

Franklin had the gall to look displeased. Francis shrugged. “It is how it is.”

Franklin nodded towards Fitzjames. “You couldn’t prevent this?”

“I was the one who shot him,” Fitzjames retorted coolly.

At that, Franklin seemed somewhat taken aback.

“I suppose now you’ll want your reward,” he said after a moment’s consideration. “Of course, I won’t be able to pay as much. The deal was _alive_ , after all. And Jane so wanted that ring back.”

Most of Francis’s mind was occupied with his desire to get out of this room as quickly as possible, but something in his mind startled at the mention of the ring. He hadn’t thought about it since that first conversation with Franklin and—

He reached for his bags, half sure that the little keepsake couldn’t have survived everything they went through since Tuckerrock, but sure enough, there it was—tucked away safely at the bottom of the pack, small, gleaming and unassuming.

“Your ring, Mr Franklin.”

The looks on Franklin’s and Fitzjames’s faces were priceless. Franklin took the ring from him and held it up to the light. When he put it down, he was nodding. “Sure enough, that’s Jane’s ring.”

Francis gave Fitzjames a small smile. Fitzjames shook his head with something like stunned pride.

“Well,” Franklin said, “I’ll send Hoar with the reward tomorrow, gentlemen. Now, if it’s alright with you, I would like to retire.”

It was alright with them.

* * *

Francis was following James.

He felt unreasonably warm in his shirt, like the tailor had fitted his collar too tightly around his neck. He’d pulled at it twice already in a futile attempt to relieve the sticky feeling in his throat. He was well aware it would do no good.

His eyes were stuck to James’s shape. He wanted—he wanted a multitude of things. He wanted to sleep for twelve hours straight. He wanted a bath, a hot meal, to stretch out his legs by the fire.

He wanted—

It was the familiar shape of the cabin before them that sent Francis’s blood rushing in his ears. Four walls and a roof, and blessed privacy. There was one thing he wanted above all.

Fitzjames fiddled with the lock. Francis kept himself a respectable distance by a force of will he hadn’t known he possessed. Once the door swung open, Francis crowded in behind James, kicking the door shut with his heel, spurs clinking against the wood, and didn’t stop until Fitzjames’s back hit the opposite wall. The breath went out of Fitzjames in a rush. Francis buried his face in the crook of Fitzjames’s neck and breathed deep.

He couldn’t help the exclamation of triumph that escaped him. “Oh, _yes_.”

A shudder went through Fitzjames’s body even as he tilted his head, inviting Francis to explore to his heart’s content. Francis crowded closer, endeavouring to press as much of himself as possible against Fitzjames. He breathed deeply, smelling sweat and the road on James’s skin. He followed it with his tongue, faintly tasting salt. James squirmed.

“Oh,” he breathed out.

Francis pulled back, just enough to look Fitzjames in the eyes. The man seemed quite unaware of having said anything, pupils blown wide and fixed to Francis unblinkingly. Francis scrounged up a last bit of self-control.

“Oughta wash up.”

He swallowed, embarrassed by how thick with desire his voice sounded.

James nodded dazedly. “Oughta.”

They got some rainwater from the barrel outside. Francis felt like he was moving through molasses, treacly and sugary-thick. His movements were slow, and dumb with want. Whenever he looked up, he found Fitzjames’s eyes already on him.

The quality of this gaze—the one that had been turned on him in the heat of desire, then with a hatred that pulsed with the same intensity as desire had before—twisted Francis’s guts. James had offered all this to him before, and Francis had refused him in the cruellest manner. It occurred to Francis that he had never apologised for it all—there hadn’t been the opportunity for it. He paused and set the flannel aside.

“James,” he said, feeling perfectly ridiculous standing here in the nude, his prick half hard. “I’m sorry.”

It didn’t even come close to what he felt. He was ashamed, as though the weight of all his shortcomings—not his perceived failings in beauty or wealth, but the abysmal ways in which he’d treated a man who cared for him—hung like an albatross around his neck.

Fitzjames paused in his ablutions. He seemed understand immediately what Francis was referring to. “I believe you.”

“Can you—” Francis’s tongue felt thick again. He cast his gaze downwards, afraid of what he might see on Fitzjames’s face. “Can you forgive me?”

Now Fitzjames set his sponge aside. He tucked his hair behind his ears with an uncharacteristically self-aware gesture. Francis found that his heart was beating fast enough to worry him, a painful thudding thing in his chest that had him sweating despite the cool air. What if Fitzjames denied him? Francis would do anything to earn his forgiveness, he was sure of that—crawl over hot coals or sleep in the pouring rain on the stoop of Fitzjames’s cabin until Fitzjames let him inside again—but that wouldn’t un-say every unkind word Francis had hurled at him or undo the hurt he’d caused.

“Francis,” Fitzjames said, his voice a low and sincere rumble. Francis’s heart leapt painfully. “I already have.”

“But—” Francis was a man on the scaffold, eyeing the rope swinging before him, finding himself with the unexpected good fortune of someone telling him it wasn’t his turn yet. There was relief, and the disbelief of knowing good things didn’t happen to him. “James, you can’t just—” He sighed, frustrated. “I haven’t done anything to merit your forgiveness.”

Fitzjames raised his eyebrows to inquiring heights. Francis could see the hint of a smile in the damned corner of Fitzjames’s mouth and knew he was about to fall victim to one of the man’s schemes.

“James, no…”

Fitzjames was already moving towards Francis with the lithe grace of a great cat—the same dangerous glint in his eyes that Francis had seen in mountain lions about to strike. Francis moved backwards, not taking his eyes of Fitzjames—his hunter’s instinct had been honed too well for that—until he realised his mistake when his back hit a cabinet. He took his eyes off Fitzjames, then, twisted his head round as Fitzjames ghosted a hand down his arm and curled it around his wrist.

“You see, Francis—” He repeated the process on the other arm. “I think you’ll find I’m capable of making that judgement on my own.”

In one swift movement, he’d pinned both Francis’s wrists against the cupboard.

“James,” Francis groaned, even as he could feel his prick begin to fill and stiffen further. “Do not make light of this. I’ve hurt you.”

“Oh, you have?” A less kind man might have described the grin on Fitzjames’s face as insolent. “I’d like to see that, if you’d indulge me.”

He squeezed his hands around Francis’s wrists in emphasis. Francis tried to squirm away, but Fitzjames’s gaze was insistent. He chased Francis’s eye. “Show me, Francis.”

Francis would do it just to stop this foolishness. He pulled at one wrist weakly, then stronger when Fitzjames wouldn’t let go. Nothing.

A hot wave of arousal rolled through Francis. He could feel it pulse in his prick which now strained forward with embarrassing ardour. Fitzjames’s hands were like the cold bite of manacles, steely and unyielding. “I…”

He shut his mouth. Fitzjames cocked his head insistently. “What?”

Francis grit his teeth. Fitzjames must feel his fucking cockstand and still the bastard stood there like he had all the time in the world, insisting on playing this ridiculous game with Francis, waiting for him to—

“I can’t,” he said.

Fitzjames released him at once. Francis fell forward, surprised by how bereft he felt. Fitzjames must’ve caught it from the look in his eyes. He went the few steps over to the bed and sat down, turning back to Francis. Francis’s eyes were drawn to the hard column of Fitzjames’s prick between the man’s legs, but it was the gentle tone of Fitzjames’s voice that shook Francis out of his stupor. “Come here.”

Francis did.

There was relief in being told what to do—a path laid out, no decisions to make. Francis valued his freedom, but he realised that it exhausted him, too. He thought about hot coals again, about all the things he would do to earn Fitzjames’s forgiveness.

He went to his knees before Fitzjames.

“Oh, none of that.” Fitzjames caught Francis’s arm and gently pulled him upwards until Francis was sitting next to him on the bed. He appeared surprised by how willingly Francis followed.

“You may be a muleheaded fool, Francis Crozier,” he said, shoving gently at Francis’s chest. Then he said nothing for a moment as a smile broke on his face. It shook his shoulders when he laughed, and Francis couldn’t help the echo of a smile on his face, even though he felt like the rope was still swinging for him. Fitzjames looked up again, brought up his hands to cradle Francis’s face and kissed him, bending Francis backwards until he lay spread out on the mattress and Fitzjames was clambering on top of him, swinging one leg over Francis and settling himself in Francis’s lap. Francis felt the shifting muscles in Fitzjames’s thighs on either side of him, bracketing him.

“But…?” Francis prompted.

Fitzjames’s face was still touched with the mirth of whatever thought he’d had.

“They always did tell me I could break horses no one else could break,” he said, then snorted through his laughter again. Francis could _feel_ it rippling through him; the reverberations in Fitzjames’s chest, the shifting of him in Francis’s lap. Francis wanted to grumble about how he was no damn wild stallion roped on the mesa, but he also wanted to pull Fitzjames close and kiss him until they couldn’t breathe anymore. It was the fault of all that squirming Fitzjames was doing in his lap—rubbing his prick against Francis’s in a way that _had_ to be calculated for how mad it drove Francis.

He opened his mouth to protest the analogy when Fitzjames rolled his hips, this time _decidedly_ with purpose, and Francis felt the hot pressure of warm skin firm against his prick, strangling the protests right out of him. Fitzjames leaned down until the slender line of his torso pressed Francis into the mattress and his hair tickled Francis’s cheek as he whispered into Francis’s ear. “Would you like to see how I’d do it?”

Francis found himself struggling to form words. At most, he managed a scoff, which was a world better than the keening whine that had wanted to escape his throat. Fitzjames’s breath was hot on his ear. “Is that what you need, Francis? A firm hand?”

He drew back to examine Francis’s face. His eyes were dark. He licked his lips.

“I would like to see you try,” Francis said, proud of how level he sounded. Fitzjames’s eyes flashed. He leaned down to kiss Francis again. The kiss was a deep, slick affair and Francis could tell Fitzjames was fumbling for something but perhaps he wasn’t as concerned as he should have been, given the challenge he’d just issued. He enjoyed sucking Fitzjames’s tongue into his mouth too much for that, the way Fitzjames pressed him down against the mattress as he did, stroked a hand down Francis’s arm and—loped something around his wrist?

Francis broke the kiss to twist his head to the side. Fitzjames was holding the drawstring of his silk robe, one end tied around Francis’s left hand. Triumph was a crooked smile on Fitzjames’s face. With quick hands that had spent a lifetime tying rope in the saddle, Fitzjames had tried the other end around the bedpost.

Francis tugged at it experimentally. The rope held. Arousal pulsed through him again, near painfully this time.

Fitzjames’s legs were still bracketing him. Not about to give up easy, Francis twisted under him, determined to throw him off. Fitzjames went with the pitch and roll of Francis’s movements as easily as if Francis were really just a stallion roped out on the plain, brought to Fitzjames for the breaking. Francis shoved at him with his right arm, then hissed as that made pain flare up in the still tender stump.

“ _Damn_.”

Fitzjames stilled. His hair fell forward, framing his face.

“Careful now,” he said, his voice gentler than anything Francis could have stood with his dignity intact.

“I’m _fine_.”

“I don’t want to hurt you, Francis.”

Francis looked away. His eyes fell on the cloth-covered furniture, half uncovered in places. It spoke to him—too much revealed to go back, but so much work left going forward. He took a deep breath, nodded.

“Alright.”

Fitzjames looked a little surprised, mouth half open—no doubt to refute Francis’s protestations. Francis gave him his best reassuring smile, even though he surely looked ridiculous, old and maimed and close to tears, in bed with a beautiful thing. Fitzjames smiled back, radiant.

He sat up, straightening out his back and tossing his hair out of his face. He settled more firmly in Francis’s lap, until every movement of his hips brought their pricks together. Francis closed his eyes.

“Do you want me to stop?”

Fitzjames’s fingers skated over Francis’s cheeks, a soft ghost of a touch, until Francis’s eyes fluttered open again. The intensity with which Fitzjames regarded him still frightened him. But he kept his eyes on Fitzjames.

“No.”

Fitzjames’s finger traced a path from Francis’s cheek to his chest and back up again, teasing at Francis’s nipple until it hardened, and Francis was squirming. The fingers of his left—restrained—hand flexed with the urge to reach out and touch in kind. It felt like his only redeeming feature, this ability to bring Fitzjames pleasure. To be robbed of it left him defenceless.

“From the moment I saw you I wanted you.”

Fitzjames’s voice had changed its pitch—it had grown deep with desire, low with a whisper.

“Out by the corral.” Francis remembered the day. Fitzjames himself had looked like something too pretty to be confined to this dirty ranch, but he’d also looked at home on the back of his horse in a way Francis had never seen before: like a thing from another time. Francis found himself half croaking out his answer, so dry was his throat. Fitzjames shook his head, even as he took a determined and firm hold of Francis’s prick. Francis breathed out, hard.

“No. I saw you before that, leaving the main house. You were carrying the Krag over one shoulder and speaking to Franklin about something.” Fitzjames’s hand was moving slowly, teasing Francis more than anything. Francis wanted to close his eyes and surrender to the sensation. “I’ve never seen a man come close to the way you look. Strong. Sturdy. Like the world beat you down and you went on in spite of it all.”

“Come off it.”

He couldn’t have been more than a convenience for Fitzjames. It was hard enough to believe the man had pined for Francis for any length of time, much less since before Francis had known him.

“I mean it.”

Fitzjames punctured the words with a firm squeeze of Francis’s prick that had Francis gasping, trying—once again in vain—to reach for Fitzjames. His body ached with the urge to touch him. He undulated under Fitzjames’s hands, caught aback by the quality of his own longing. Wanting to fuck him was safe. Wanting this—his reverent eyes, the history of his longing for Francis, the promise of the same in the future—was not.

Fitzjames shuffled back, pinning Francis to the bed by his legs instead of his hips. “I will show you, if you let me.”

There was again the demand for Francis to yield.

“I—” Francis’s words faltered when Fitzjames’s hand trailed down between his thighs, teasing a finger over his balls and then lower still, coming to rest against Francis’s opening. Francis closed his mouth, and Fitzjames cocked his head—a question. Francis took a deep breath as he felt his blood pulse hot and heavy in his prick.

“I’ve never…”

Words failed him, or perhaps there was safety in the unspoken. Better to omit a few truths than to bare oneself.

“But do you want to?”

Oh but damn Fitzjames—the man would not leave a thing alone. His finger was slowly circling the ring of muscle; a queer sensation, foreign and yet tantalising. Francis closed his eyes and swore, a display that appeared to amuse Fitzjames. “A simple yes or no will suffice.”

He tapped his finger, once. Francis suddenly wished fiercely that Fitzjames would just turn him on his stomach and _claim_ Francis, cram himself deep inside Francis’s body so that the damn thing might be useful for something for once, but of course Fitzjames wanted an answer, he wanted to hear Francis share the depth of his depravity.

“Yes,” Francis rasped. He wasn’t prepared for Fitzjames scrambling to kiss him, the way it brought them skin to skin and had Fitzjames’s hard prick pressing against Francis’s stomach. Francis held him carefully in one arm, delighting in this lean and beautiful body atop him.

Francis attempted to calm the frantic beating of his heart as Fitzjames retrieved the grease and sniffed it experimentally. Apparently satisfied, he returned to the foot of the bed.

“Spread these for me now.”

He took a hold of Francis’s ankles to gently push his legs apart, then guided him further until Francis’s feet were planted apart on the mattress. Francis swallowed.

“Relax.”

Fitzjames skimmed his hands up and down Francis’s calves. Francis forced himself to take a deep breath. He nodded. “Alright.”

He had been ready for Fitzjames to grease up his finger and shove it into Francis with little ceremony—it would be no more and no less than he deserved, having treated Fitzjames’s body like a commodity in the past—but instead Fitzjames set the grease aside and bent down to mouth playfully at Francis’s prick, licking the shaft and teasing at the head. Francis could have sworn he felt him grinning, though he couldn’t risk a look—that surely would have undone him.

He mouthed at Francis’s balls, drawn tight, and Francis felt himself helpless to the rolling waves of desire and everything he wanted to do to this man. One of Fitzjames’s fingers—slick with grease—joined Fitzjames’s mouth in its ministrations, circling but not quite reaching its goal.

Fitzjames paused, head still bent to its task but his mouth still on Francis’s skin. “Have I tamed you, then?”

His voice had a playful tone to it. Francis, who was shaking quite badly, had no patience for such games. “James…”

There was a grin on Fitzjames’s mouth, Francis could feel it. “After all, I can’t ride some half-broke—”

“James!”

“—half-wild—”

_“James!”_

“—beast of a stallion.”

Fitzjames bit at the inside of his thigh, and Francis’s hips bucked off the bed.

“Hm,” Fitzjames mused. “Not quite tame yet, it seems.”

“You’ll find what a beast I can be if you continue to tease me any longer,” Francis grumbled.

“I should be shaking in my boots, I suppose,” Fitzjames mused, one feather-light finger still teasing the rim of Francis’s hole, “The great bounty hunter Francis Crozier is threatening me. But I believe his threats are quite toothless—after all, I currently have him tied to my bed.”

As though Francis needed reminding of that. Still, the thought pleased a secret part of him—the idea that Fitzjames could do as he wanted with Francis, and that Francis would have to let him.

“I am at your mercy, then.”

Fitzjames’s smile had teeth. “It is good of you to recognise it.”

He exerted the slightest bit of pressure against Francis’s hole. Francis swore as the pressure didn’t let up, just kept increasing until Fitzjames pushed the grip of one greased finger inside of him.

Francis felt quite incapable of movement. Fitzjames kept slowly pushing his finger in and out of him, probing deeper, but Francis was quite lost to all acknowledgement of that: to be filled by Fitzjames, to be his entire and let him lay claim to Francis as Francis, in the past, had laid claim to him was exquisite.

“That’s it,” Fitzjames whispered, though Francis barely registered the words, “Open up for me.”

He opened Francis up with exact movements, a deliberate precision that left Francis wondering just how long Fitzjames had waited to take him apart like this. A second finger joined the first.

It barely even shocked Francis anymore, though his body still jolted, and he heard himself moaning as though the sound was coming from somewhere outside his body. Fitzjames touched him with a single-minded focus, working his fingers steadily and unhurriedly.

“You’re doing so well,” Fitzjames murmured.

Francis would have told him that he was no wilting maiden except Fitzjames drilled his fingers inside Francis again; finding his mark as unerringly as he hit anything that came into his sights. Francis found he quite lacked the breath to respond after that.

“Get in me,” he said when he could breathe again. “Damn you, James, I need you.”

And James, looking incredibly pleased with himself: “Quite tame now, aren’t you?”

“I’ll show you—” Francis began, but as quick as anything, Fitzjames tucked a third finger against his other two and drove them back into Francis. Francis had never felt so open, so vulnerable and yet so cared for at the same time.

“Don’t worry, I won’t make you wait any longer,” Fitzjames whispered, which was the only warning Francis got before Fitzjames withdrew his fingers, leaving Francis clenching around nothing and facing the embarrassing keening sound that tore from his throat. He watched as Fitzjames reached for the grease again, rubbing a generous amount on his cock. The sight of it appearing and disappearing in Fitzjames’s fist, berry-red and leaking, had Francis’s breath shallow.

Fitzjames braced himself on one arm above Francis. He lined himself up carefully. Francis felt him nudge against his entrance one moment, the next Fitzjames had slipped the head inside and Francis groaned, feeling stretched to his breaking point already. Above him, Fitzjames made a wounded noise.

“God, Francis…”

He seemed quite incapable of speech all of a sudden. His hips kept jerking, though Francis could tell by the tension in his muscles he was trying to control himself, as though all of Fitzjames’s body was seeking to plunge itself deeper into Francis.

Francis made a conscious effort to relax his muscles and Fitzjames slipped deeper. Francis felt like he was being broken bit by bit, with every thick inch Fitzjames was surrendering to his body. Another push, and more of Fitzjames slipped inside of him. Francis felt close to hysterics.

“You feel—”

Fitzjames made a frustrated noise, rolled his hips, and just like that the last of him slipped in and Francis found himself poised on the edge of something wonderful and terrible: his complete surrender to Fitzjames in trusting him with the most vulnerable part of himself, and hoping Fitzjames wouldn’t hurt him. Fitzjames’s prick was hot and stiff inside his arse and Francis felt like he’d been stuck on it. His own prick, painfully hard, was trapped between their bodies—Francis had to take deep breaths to calm himself from shaking at the slightest touch to it.

“James—” He wouldn’t have rightly known what to say. He wanted to tell James he understood now that it wasn’t about forgiveness but trust, but the thought disappeared as soon as it occurred to him, and then all that was left was Fitzjames and the way that he moved.

“You’re a marvel, Francis, you’re—” Fitzjames’s thrusts were erratic—the man was as aroused as Francis was, if not more. “—so _fucking_ tight—” This punctuated by a stab of his prick on every word. “—gonna break you open, Francis, make you mine, _yes_.”

He near shouted the last words. Francis knew that neither of them would very long.

Could he have, he would have wrapped Fitzjames’s hair around his fist and pulled him down into a kiss. As things stood, he could only pant a desperate request and sigh at the relief of Fitzjames crushing his mouth to Francis’s. Fitzjames shoved his tongue into Francis’s mouth as though he wanted to be inside of Francis any way he could, claiming him completely. Francis broke the kiss, panted: “Touch me, please touch me” before fixing his mouth to Fitzjames’s again.

Fitzjames reached for Francis’s prick with a hand that shook badly, stroking him tightly. Francis shouted, then—the delectable sensation of Fitzjames inside of him, around him, wherever Francis looked filled him with indescribable gladness. He gave himself over to the rhythm of Fitzjames’s thrusts, his hand, the push and pull of it, his head blissfully empty of thoughts.

His own end took him by surprise, pulled from him as it was with the force of Fitzjames’s affection. He could feel his prick pulse, and his own spend covering his chest in sticky stripes, and his muscles clench around Fitzjames’s intruding length. Fitzjames gave a shout at that—something mangled and incomprehensible—and sped up his thrusts to frantic speeds, hair falling forward in endearing disarray. His eyes were screwed shut in concentration.

“Come on, James,” Francis whispered, “Fill me.” He swallowed. “Please, James—"

Fitzjames’s eyes flew open, finding Francis’s. He made one last push—Francis’s prick twitched at that, shocking a gasp out of Francis—shoving himself deeper still and then Francis felt Fitzjames’s prick pulsing deep inside of him, Fitzjames shaking above him, holding himself up on arms that didn’t seem to want to bear him anymore. He looked pained as his pleasure overtook him, and his mouth kept forming Francis’s name. 

* * *

They lay until the candle burned out and darkness overtook the cabin, disinclined to move. Fitzjames had untied Francis’s hand and Francis had thrown a sheet over both of them. Underneath it, their legs touched, as did their hands, cradled between their bodies.

“Where will we go next?”

Fitzjames’s voice was quiet even in the silence of the room. It sounded hopeful, giddy like that of a child with all the possibilities of the world still laid out before it. Francis shrugged.

“We’ll go where there’s work.”

Fitzjames snorted. “That’s hardly romantic.”

Francis would have made a comment about Fitzjames being in the wrong business, but the darkness of the cabin and the way Fitzjames’s skin shone in the pale light seemed too delicate for mockery. “It can be. Depends on your luck.”

He shifted; marvelled at the tenderness of his arse. Even with their immediate desire slaked, Francis found he still wanted Fitzjames in a multitude of ways that would take weeks, months, years to explore.

“You don’t want to stay at Day Break, then?” he asked Fitzjames. A frown passed Fitzjames’s face, and Francis was quick to assure him: “I’m not asking this to be rid of you. Only…”

“Only?”

Francis looked at Fitzjames and knew how his own body compared: bent out of shape from the road, tired and weather-worn. The road would not be kind to Fitzjames.

“Only it’s a harder life than the one you have here.”

“I am through with comfort,” Fitzjames said decisively, with a force that surprised Francis, “I am sick of it. Francis, even the most miserable days of our trek were more exciting to me than anything that has ever happened to me at Day Break.”

Francis closed his eyes, overwhelmed by the image that came to him: the open road before him and Fitzjames at his side, steady companionship and someone who loved him, a pair of brown eyes watching him across the campfire and a warm body at his side in the night.

“Alright then,” he said hoarsely. He drew Fitzjames’s hand to his lips and pressed a gentle kiss atop his knuckles.

“You’ll have to get a new horse,” Fitzjames said, shifting so that he could press closer to Francis. They breathed in unison. “What will you name it? Surely nothing so gloomy as _Terror_.”

No, Francis couldn’t picture the man who had picked that name anymore. He might still be somewhere inside of him, but Francis was so much bigger now than simply the miserable bounty hunter who’d let his occupation define him.

“You’ll have to help me think of something.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Francis accidentally shoots Terror as Hickey is trying to flee. If you want to avoid the graphic descriptions, stop reading at _"He’d aimed for Hickey’s back as the bastard rode away, but he should have known his aim wasn’t what it once was."_ You can start reading again at _"Francis stood. He felt wide awake and terribly exhausted."_
> 
> We're closing the main part of the story with [Duncan and Jimmy](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xLmy2UfQPxA), once again featuring the ethereal Rhiannon Giddens. Also, if you want to hear her talk about the Black history of the banjo, you can check out [this video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DkGSns7-_e0).


	13. Following the North Star

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I went back through my entire discord conversation with tumblr user kenobiz to confirm that this was indeed the first scene I wrote of the fic when I decided to continue it back in July. For some mood music, consider these [saloon piano tunes](https://open.spotify.com/artist/6CrEIczuDLHCGVq6vTgNg8?si=_HPVd1BKQ_WQiATBj1Akew).

**A FEW MONTHS LATER. CALIFORNIA.**

The only light in the backroom filtered in through slits in the wood, low and yellow as the sun sank deeper over the horizon. The tallow candles, flickering and stinking, barely gave off enough light to be worth calling it that. Francis took care not to brush too close to them as he drew the fabric over Fitzjames’s head, the stuffy air and the rustle of the dress an intimate symphony. Fitzjames sighed when Francis drew the laces closed—one-handed, inelegantly, and with the help of Fitzjames’s deft fingers.

“I always wondered what that felt like.”

Francis ran his remaining hand over Fitzjames’s newly covered back. He knew what Fitzjames’s skin looked like underneath, had followed a delicate path over it with his mouth and fingers many times. Still, to see it clothed always felt like a promise of the future unveiling.

“Have you thought about this a lot?”

Fitzjames didn’t quite turn, but he cast a glance over his shoulder. His smile was bashful. “Perhaps.”

Francis filed that information away for later investigation. They were on a tight schedule.

“You’re certain you can do this?”

They had pursued their bounty through the Arizona territory all the way to a sleepy California town on the edge of the Pacific. The man was hiding somewhere in this town, but their attempts to draw him out had been futile. They decided to lay the only bait that might hold some attraction, something that was in short supply in a town such as this—a show.

Fitzjames’s smile turned into a broad grin. “You’ll have to trust me, Francis.”

Francis patted the side of his duster that obscured the gun—on his left side now, which still took some getting used to. He stepped back, focussed his eyes on Fitzjames who looked vulnerable, less for the dress he was wearing and more for the fact that he would step out in front of a crowd without any weapons. It wasn’t sensible.

“Will I do for a can-can dancer?” Fitzjames poised his hands on his hips, cocked his head to the side. His hair—freshly washed and brushed for the occasion—fell in easy waves just past his chin. The shadow of rouge on his cheeks reminded Francis of the times they spent racing each other across the plains, the elation and easy laughter of Fitzjames he’d never thought he could find pleasing. The dress completed the illusion of femininity, though Francis supposed they wouldn’t have to try very hard in this faded gold rush town—most men here likely hadn’t seen a woman in months, maybe years. It was all about the fantasy.

“You will,” he said, and suddenly realised how affected he sounded. Fitzjames looked—pretty was the wrong word for it, perhaps; he looked like something plucked out of a deep dream, something unremembered that came to the surface. Francis swallowed. Fitzjames, evidently not satisfied, stepped up to the mirror and fussed with his hair.

“You know that the can-can has evolved from the quadrille?” He adjusted his neck band and feather-piece. “Quite a way to go for a dance of polite society.”

Francis stuck his hand and stump into his duster pockets. He was afraid of doing something rash, like reaching out and pulling Fitzjames close; like rucking up his skirts and taking him on the dusty floor of the saloon backroom.

“Are you ready?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be.” Fitzjames turned again. “I do say, I might even manage a high kick.”

Francis snorted. “Try not to kick the ceiling.”

He stepped out the back door while Fitzjames went through the door leading into the saloon. Francis walked the short way around the building, squinting into the evening sun and wishing for the same things he always wished for—easier marks, a full pocket and a clear shot. The room was already half full when he re-entered the building through the swinging doors, though the half-light made it hard for Francis to see any faces. He stuck to the back, where a suitable corner table was still unoccupied. A close-faced girl brought him a whiskey. He tipped her generously.

He leaned back in his seat, stretching out his legs and crossing them at the ankles. For a while, he watched the room fill up with patrons, dusty men come from their makeshift homes looking for a little bit of fun to fill their dreary, monotonous lives. No one he recognised so far.

A twang from the piano had him look up. The artist was a young man in his twenties who had no great skill at the instrument but could read sheet music well enough to play here twice a week. Francis had gritted his teeth, but Fitzjames had shrugged and insisted it would work. After all, no one came to a vaudeville show for the _music_. Francis had, begrudgingly, agreed.

Other heads turned at the sound of the piano, but the ruckus of conversation was high enough that a few notes didn’t silence it immediately, even as the mood of the room shifted—there was anticipation on the air now, and one by one, the conversations died away.

There was movement at the back of the stage.

As poor and desolate as the town was, in its heyday, it had seen its share of investors hoping to make it big. The stage was nothing short of magnificent, with a background of deep blue and golden stars, and heavy brocade curtains, moth-eaten though they were. They were dark blue, and gold trimmed.

The piano picked up again—a few notes to silence the crowd, and then the boy launched into a jaunty tune that Francis felt he should recognise. A cheer broke out that died away quickly: the sound of a crowd holding its breath in apprehension. There was a break in the music. The sound of a boot hitting the stage-wood floor. And then Fitzjames walked out.

Walking was, perhaps, not quite the way to describe it—he hopped out from stage left in a queer, jaunty way, grinning wildly until he hit the middle of the stage where he struck a pose, one arm raised into the air. The crowd cheered again, heartened by the sight of a tall, slender woman in voluminous skirts. Francis felt his throat go dry.

The first few measures consisted of nothing more than Fitzjames, hands on his hips, hopping to and fro on the stage in a way that made his skirts bounce in the most enticing manner. There was an equal amount of laughter and cheer, and quite a few whistles whenever one of the men caught sight of a bit of skin. The feather-piece on Fitzjames head made him seem even taller. Francis couldn’t help but notice how elegant he looked, how at home in the outfit. He shimmied his body backwards and forwards a little bit, pushing out a chest they had padded with excess fabric earlier. The crowd didn’t notice. They roared. Fitzjames grinned, and on the next move back took a hold of his skirts and pulled them upwards, flashing lace drawers and long, muscular legs. His black boots were shining.

Francis shifted in his seat, swallowed.

Fitzjames began waving his skirts to the left and right while hopping in place, smiling and cocking his head. He looked like the very picture of feminine innocence, like someone so lost in their art they didn’t even consider the implications of their performance. Francis shifted again—he was here on a job; he wasn’t even supposed to be watching Fitzjames—but he couldn’t look away.

Fitzjames spun in place, then went back to flashing glimpses of his drawers while kicking out his legs and Francis had to concede that it was a losing battle—his prick was hardening traitorously in his pants, the sight of Fitzjames before him too much to bear.

He cleared his throat and tore his eyes away, looking around. The crowd was a roiling mass of cheering, red-faced men and Francis felt a wave of jealousy overcome him as intensely as he felt his arousal. They had no right to look at Fitzjames that way.

No sign of their mark as of yet. Francis turned back to the stage when he heard the crowd gasp, just in time to see Fitzjames had turned around, bent over, and revealed his arse—blessedly covered by his drawers—to the roaring crowd. Francis felt faint.

Fitzjames turned again, and Francis caught his eye. He cocked his head to the side in time with the music, and Francis thought nothing of it until Fitzjames did it again, still maintaining eye contact. He followed his line of sight.

The man was sitting close to the stage, a hat drawn into his face. He was watching with rapt attention, and Francis recognised him immediately.

He swallowed, took a moment to compose himself. Then he abandoned his seat.

From the corner of his eye, he could still see Fitzjames moving. His colourful skirts were distracting flashes at the edge of his vision, the glimpses he got of Fitzjames’s skin tantalising in a way that was dangerous now. He was lying flat on his back, his legs up in the air, kicking them forwards and backwards. The crowd cheered, gasped, roared and cheered again, a cacophony of sound that provided the safety Francis needed. Under his duster, he pulled out his Smith & Wesson model 3 and cocked it. The poster had said _alive_ , but Francis knew by now how to explain his way out of a revolver discharging accidentally. Such things happened, after all.

He made sure the revolver pointed squarely at the man’s back before he put a hand on his shoulder. “Solomon Tozer,” he said, his grip a vice that kept the ex-sheriff pressed to his seat. “If I were you, I would remain _very still_ right now.”

* * *

They met back up after Francis delivered Tozer to a holding cell at the sheriff’s office and paid the sheriff enough to keep him there. Fitzjames had removed the dress, though a spot of colour still sat on his cheeks—from rouge or exertion, Francis couldn’t tell.

“Did you see my split?” Fitzjames asked as they led their horses the dusty road out of town, to the little camp they had set up by the water. Francis shook his head. “I did not.”

“My high kick, then,” Fitzjames pressed. Again, Francis negated. “I was a little preoccupied with our mark.”

Fitzjames huffed. “Preoccupied. I saw how _preoccupied_ you were.”

Francis felt his face grow hot. He remained silent as they rode out of town, the short winding path that led down to the beach. Finally, he gathered the courage to say, “I wanted you.”

A delighted smile bloomed on Fitzjames’s face. He turned in the saddle to face Francis, fix him with a stare that was unmistakeable in its heat. “I wanted you to want me.”

They didn’t stop to get a fire going. Their tent was already set up, sheltered between the rocks. Fitzjames gasped when Francis bore him down, tearing at his clothes.

“All I could think about,” Francis rasped, a hand on Fitzjames’s wrist that felt both proprietary and comforting as he kissed his way down Fitzjames’s throat. “Was pulling up your skirts and sliding into you right there, in front of all these men who wanted you.”

Fitzjames groaned, pushing his hips up insistently against Francis’s prick. Francis could feel his excitement and gave it a considering squeeze.

“Would have let you,” Fitzjames mumbled, “Wanted you to claim me.”

Francis swore. Fitzjames had a way of disarming him. Propped up on his right arm, he made short work of Fitzjames’s pants with his good hand, then swore again. “You kept them,” he said, running a careful hand over the drawers that he’d admired on Fitzjames earlier. The fabric was soft, though the look of them was somewhat ruined by the hard line of Fitzjames’s prick. Francis squeezed it again and Fitzjames’s legs fell open. “For you,” he panted.

Francis kept working him with slow, measured strokes, considering the vision of a man before him—tall and muscular, the face of a statue with the blush of a man. He would have said he didn’t deserve Fitzjames and would have been right but didn’t dare curse the stroke of luck that had brought him Fitzjames in spite of his worthlessness.

“Francis—” Fitzjames warned.

Francis shushed him. “It’s alright.”

Fitzjames’s face was screwed tight in search of his release, his hips twitching desperately, searching to aid the movement on Francis’s hand on his prick. “Please,” he whispered hoarsely, then again— “Please.”

Francis slipped his hand inside the drawers, marvelling at the obscene picture. As often the case, the obscuring of the act seemed lewder than the act itself, and Francis watched with fascination the movement of his hand on Fitzjames’s prick under the fabric. Fitzjames’s mouth fell open in a groan that sounded like surrender when Francis’s thumb brushed the sensitive spot under the head, Fitzjames’s head lifting up and then thumping back against the bedroll. “Yes, _yes_ —”

He seized up, eyes flying open and finding Francis. A wordless cry hung on his lips before Francis felt warmth covering his hands, wet and plentiful. He continued stroking Fitzjames slowly, deliberately, hoping to draw him to the place where the pleasure became too much to bear. Fitzjames simply sighed—his body relaxed against the bedroll.

Fitzjames’s prick was softening in his hand now but still Fitzjames did not ask him to move his hand. Francis—finally giving in to his urge to _see_ —carefully pulled down the drawers. When Francis put his thumb against Fitzjames entrance, delicately begging entry, Fitzjames sighed again. “ _Yes_.”

He had to let go of him to find the oil, and then to slick up a finger. He wished for another hand to keep Fitzjames’s soft prick nestled safe and close; made do with his mouth instead. Fitzjames’s made a startled noise but seized the back of Francis’s head before Francis could pull away. “Want,” he said, wetting his lips, “Want this. Want you.”

Francis nodded, once.

The breath was leaving Fitzjames in little gasps when Francis slipped a finger inside of him. His prick rested softly on Francis’s tongue, tasting faintly of Fitzjames’s spend. Francis was painfully hard but drawing his pleasure out he felt like he was dream-walking—the edges were softened, his own limbs seemed to belong to someone else, all the while Fitzjames encouraged him with quiet whispers.

Francis let Fitzjames’s prick fall from his mouth—it had started to fill out again, Fitzjames ever eager—and turned him over.

Fitzjames gasped, his mind perhaps seizing on the tableau Francis had painted earlier—it was certainly on Francis’s mind as he rucked up Fitzjames’s shirt instead of skirts, pulling out his own prick and surrendering it, bit by aching bit, to the tight heat of Fitzjames’s arse.

“Don’t think they would have even been shocked,” Francis whispered, a careful consideration of a fantasy. He did not want to hurt Fitzjames. He’d done his share of that. But he’d also learned there could be pleasure in debasing oneself, and Fitzjames, vain as he was, certainly knew that. “Exposing yourself like a dirty whore. Hoping someone might be man enough to come and claim you.”

Fitzjames cried out, a wordless agreement. There was tension in Fitzjames’s limbs again, the signs of his pleasure that Francis could read as well as any track.

“You won’t be parading around like that when I’m done with you,” Francis hissed. Under him, Fitzjames convulsed. “Oh yes, Francis, mark me—”

Francis bit his shoulder and screwed his eyes shut. He knew what pleased Fitzjames, but Fitzjames also knew how to please him and he used it shamelessly, grinding his hips back against Francis, allowing his prick to slip deeper into Fitzjames’s arse. Francis seized a handful of his hair, twisting Fitzjames’s head to the side.

“Mine,” he said, placing a brutal, possessive kiss to the side of his neck. Fitzjames wailed and shuddered, the muscles of his arse tightening around Francis’s prick. Francis never wanted it to end—the feeling of filling Fitzjames, of having him deeply in a way no one else could have him. Fitzjames spurred him on with filthy encouragements. Francis, seized by a sudden need to kiss him, pulled out and rolled Fitzjames over, then slammed back into him hastily as Fitzjames’s legs locked around his hips. Francis leaned forward and kissed him, Fitzjames pulling Francis’s prick into his body and his tongue into his mouth and Francis sobbed, once—he felt empty, overwhelmed, overcome—and then his hips were jerking forward erratically until, at last, he felt the pulse and throb of his release deep inside Fitzjames.

* * *

The night sky and the sea were an unbroken blanket of deep dark blue by the time they made their way down to the beach. The ocean was something one felt rather than saw, Francis always thought—the roar and smell of it were always easier to parse than the view of the endless expanse of water before them.

“Well,” Fitzjames said, “Here we are.”

“Are where?” Francis said. Their desire sated, they had fallen into a drowsy mood, tending to the campfire, preparing their food, until Francis suggested a walk to the water.

“The end of expansion. The other side of the continent. The culmination of all mystery.”

Fitzjames picked a spot in the sand and plopped down, taking a handful of the stuff and letting it run through his fingers. Francis sat down next to him carefully—his joints weren’t quite so forgiving.

“That’s a comfort,” he said.

“You think so?” Fitzjames seemed surprised.

Francis turned to him. In the poor light of a moonless night, Fitzjames was barely visible, and yet Francis could fill in every detail of his face by memory. What a strange gift, to have someone he knew so completely.

“I think so,” Francis said.

Art by [lenkagabriela](https://twitter.com/lenkagabriela).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is it! I was putting off editing this chapter all week and halfway through Sunday because I didn’t want to be done with it. I’ll miss these cowboys a whole lot.
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who came along on this journey. Reading your comments every week was an incredibly precious gift. I hope you had as much fun as I did. 
> 
> We’re ending the playlist on Rhiannon Giddens’ [Following the North Star](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z-6XGj16wrE).

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this, consider leaving me a comment. I am also on tumblr as [veganthranduil](https://veganthranduil.tumblr.com/).
> 
> There’s also playlists! The chapter titles are all taken from country (in some places stretching the definition of ‘country’) songs, and I’ve put them together for you [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/352e6DTc3X4UoDO4sCedX1?si=5udDC3eBTu-luvrBd7Nu-A). A slightly longer playlist (including contributions from my very patient cowboy partner, who would like you all to listen to the Riders in the Sky!) with all the songs that inspired me during the writing is [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2L9J7GT9amNh6dWpE1YnGk?si=z1C309-TTImDu7w2jFtCQw).
> 
> There's art too!! 
> 
> The wonderful [vandrawsing](https://vandrawsing.tumblr.com/) drew [bounty hunter Francis](https://vandrawsing.tumblr.com/post/629984681698508800), as well as [cowboy James and Sophia](https://vandrawsing.tumblr.com/post/629985965056851968)!!
> 
> Thank you to [Kris](https://amatlapal.tumblr.com) for [sexy Francis on a horse](https://amatlapal.tumblr.com/post/641065069893058560/binged-veganthranduils-mercator-here-cant-help) and [these two wonderful pieces](https://amatlapal.tumblr.com/post/641304433290051584/more-art-of-veganthranduils-mercator-fic-im).
> 
> And thank you to [Susan](https://twitter.com/downeymore) for [this spicy art](https://twitter.com/fitzshameless/status/1363939032275763206?s=19)!


End file.
